


A Cardinal Affair

by shinigami_yumi



Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Autofellatio, Complete, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, F/M, Halloween Costumes, Implied Castiel/Sam Winchester, M/M, Mild Language, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Nightmares, Rimming, Sam Winchester's Visions, Sastiel Big Bang 2013, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-05 14:01:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 56,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinigami_yumi/pseuds/shinigami_yumi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://sastiel-bigbang.livejournal.com">Sastiel Big Bang</a> 2013</p><p>The Stanford AU in which Misha and Vicki go to Stanford instead of University of Chicago and meet Sam Winchester. Sam and Misha are assigned as roommates and really hit it off. It's not long before the flirtation stops being a joke, but by the time Misha realizes his feelings are no longer platonic, Sam has started dating Jess. Meanwhile, Sam's nightmares start up as a demon-possessed Brady begins killing people, Misha's mother is attacked by a Skinwalker, and a Halloween campout at a haunted house goes terribly wrong.</p><p><a href="http://dumblemop.livejournal.com/96435.html">Art post</a> by <a href="http://dumblemop.livejournal.com">dumblemop</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Don't Know You're Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> Because, to quote Misha, "What's not to love about Sam?"
> 
> Many thanks to my betas, [Meinarch](http://sassypancakes.tumblr.com) and [septembers_coda](http://septembers-coda.livejournal.com), as well as [dumblemop](http://dumblemop.livejournal.com) for the lovely art!
> 
> Click on the banner below for the post with all the full-sized images and give the artist some love too!
> 
>    
> [](http://dumblemop.livejournal.com/96435.html)

Sam's eyes were still a little puffy when he arrived in Palo Alto, but he justified it with having rubbed them too much on the bus and the sudden glare of warm California sunshine. He supposed he'd expected Dean to take his side, even after all the initial fighting, but in the end, his brother had only stood by in silent grief as he slammed the door on his family and ran to the bus station without looking back. In hindsight, he should have known better: Dean had never stood up to their father before; why would he start now? He’d been really upset when he first heard of Sam’s plans to leave, too. Once registrations were complete though, he felt cheered. Stanford is beautiful as he walks through it, all sandstone and red tile, oak trees and wide open spaces, bustling with students moving in and families helping out.

He catches himself.

No, he can do this on his own. He‘ll get his law degree and prove to them that they _can_ have something outside the family business. There's more to life than hunting and revenge, and they can have that if they choose, but he wants something better, and he's going to show Dean it's possible.

Armed with a map of campus, he finds Lagunita Court easily enough. It’s a lovely complex overlooking Lake Lagunita, which still has some water in it. By the time he reaches his small room on the second floor of Granada, it appears that his roommate has already arrived, if the boxes scattered about the floor are any indication. The guy himself is nowhere to be found, however, so Sam sets to unpacking his few belongings from his knapsack and duffle bag into the wardrobe chosen for him before flopping back on the mattress tiredly.

Just then, the key turns in the lock, and it takes some effort to sit up calmly like a normal person instead of jumping for a weapon. The newcomer, presumably his roommate for the year, pauses in surprise as he sees Sam, then quickly breaks into a friendly smile.

"My new roommate, I gather?" he opens, shifting the box in his arms to lock the door behind him. "Hi. I'm Misha." He sets the box down and offers his hand.

"Yup. That's me." Sam shakes it. "I‘m Sam."

"Any idea what you're studying yet?"

"I’m not sure yet, but I was thinking of law school, so probably public policy."

"Yeah?" Misha grins; he has a lovely smile and the bluest eyes Sam's ever seen. "Me too, but sociology." He still hasn't let go after the earlier handshake; he has nice hands, and his shoulder-length chestnut hair is tied up in a ponytail with a tacky pink rubber band. "And I was just wondering how to loft my bed by myself, but now that you're here, how about we work on both our beds together? I just got the materials from Housing."

"Oh, uh... I'd rather not loft mine. It's not like I have much stuff, and I don't like the climb."

Misha visibly deflates, as if he expects Sam to refuse to help simply because he doesn't also benefit, and Sam realizes at once that it feels a lot like letting down the favorite toddler nephew he never had.

"But I'll help you with yours," he adds quickly, standing. "I don't know how though."

The other brightens enough to proverbially light up the room. "Great! I do, so no worries. Just follow my instructions, and we'll get it done in no time." They set to work dismantling the bed frame, and Misha asks, "Is your family dropping by tomorrow with the rest of your stuff?"

Sam smiles thinly and hesitates before answering, "No, I've got everything. No one's coming."

Fortunately, Misha is too busy working on the bed frame to notice his expression and continues talking. "Oh. And here I was thinking I’d be the only one here that came alone. My mother really wanted to come, but she couldn't get off work, and she can't afford to not work all the shifts and hours she can get anyway. Okay, now we need to join these two pieces." They do, and then Misha has Sam hold the pieces in place as he puts in the screws. "Also, she wasn't so happy that she barely saw me over the last few months because I got that grant to spend it on this volunteer program in Nepal and Tibet, which was really cool. I had trouble breathing the first few days, but fortunately, I got used to it." Misha moves to the other side to continue working. "Anyway, people live such simple lives there. It made me feel so thankful for all the things we take for granted, though. And we learned that tourism and handicrafts were huge contributors to their economy, so I felt bad that I couldn't afford to buy more souvenirs, but..." He pauses to clamber over to a well-worn bag and dig out a wooden box. "I did get this set of eight tsaklis and these little Nepalese puppets. And two rugs that I'll show you later."

The box is painted blue with red geometric shapes on it and tied shut with a yellow braided cord. "Did it come with the box?" Sam asks as he unwinds the cord and opens it to find eight Buddhist paintings on small pieces of cloth affixed to little wooden sticks. Secretly, he's a bit worried that they may be cursed, but probably not if they're mass-produced for souvenir shops. The puppets are tiny, but made with heartfelt attention to detail, and there are a dozen of them, all wearing what look to be traditional costumes.

"Ah, no, I had to make the box myself because it didn't seem right for them not to have their own box."

He shuts the lid to take a better look at the wooden box. It's very well made. "You made this?" He looks up at his roommate, astonished.

Misha moves to put the screws into a different joint. "Yeah, I apprenticed with a carpenter throughout high school. It covered my expenses, and I learned a lot. I just got a job working part-time at a company nearby. The owner is a friend of my last boss, so he got me the job when he heard I was moving out here."

"Oh wow, that's really cool. It's a very nice box."

"T—Thanks. Um. Now we need to move these into position."

Sam puts the box back into the bag before going over to help.

"Yes. Right here. Now, if you'd just hold this...?" Misha continues talking as he works. "Anyway, I caught a glimpse of the Dalai Lama too as I was walking through Lhasa one day, but I didn't get to meet him. Did you know Tibet’s the most underdeveloped area in China? They're dependent on the Chinese government for ninety percent of their expenditure. And then in Kathmandu, as we’re walking around, these kids would run up to you and ask for alms, only they weren’t asking for money; they wanted things they could use like pencils and notebooks. And I just... Someday, I want to start some huge charity drive for them. I spent every spare moment at the monasteries. I find meditation very restorative. You should try it someday. The food's mostly okay, very Indian in Nepal if you’ve had that, but did you know they drink tea with salt and yak butter in Tibet?" Misha makes a face. "Doesn't sit well with my stomach. The first time I tried it, I was in the bathroom for _hours_ and— Oops." He stops, turning to look at Sam sheepishly. "Sorry. People tell me I overshare. Hope I haven't made you uncomfortable."

"What?" Sam blinks. "Oh, no, no." It must be nice, being able to talk so freely about oneself without being declared delusional. "Keep going. I don't mind at all. You're very interesting."

"Oh. Oh good. I guess that's one way of putting it."

"What's the other way of putting it?" Sam asks as they move on to joining the next two pieces.

Misha smiles, almost shyly, and it's impossibly charming. "I believe the accepted vernacular is weird."

Sam squares his shoulders. "Well, I think you're a great person, and maybe people just don't like that you make them feel worse about themselves in comparison," he declares firmly.

Misha laughs, blue eyes twinkling. "Defending me already?" His expression grows fond. "You remind me of Vicki, my best friend. She said something like that too. Only she's pretty wacky herself, so I'd say her benchmarks are all biased, yeah?" He grins again. "Anyway, residential dining hasn't started yet, so when we're done here, let's go grab dinner. Where did you say you were from again?"

"I didn't. Lawrence, Kansas."

"Boston, Massachusetts. Well, I‘m sure you'll like that café anyway. Everything they serve is good. And you can tell me all about yourself, so I don't feel like I'm always the only one talking."

Sam chuckles nervously. "Nah, my story's pretty boring in comparison." _What I can tell you of it, anyway._ If Misha is weird, then Sam is quite sure his own life is batshit fucking insane.

"Well, tell me anyway and let me be the judge. And if you're done before dinner's over, we can always move on to ground rules."

"Yeah," Sam agrees, smiling. Stanford is going to be great. _Normal_ is going to be great. He can feel it. And he already has the coolest roommate in the world. It's going to be an amazing four years.

~*~

As it turns out, Misha has a car, a blue sedan with a grey upholstered interior he’s had since he started driving. It’s nothing Dean would swoon over, even had he place in his heart for any car besides the Impala, but it’s well maintained and has good mileage for its age. Sam thinks it could have come right out of Singer Salvage.

“When I can afford it, I’d like to switch to a hybrid. More eco-friendly _and_ better mileage,” Misha says as they get in. When he realized that Sam had been completely serious about having nothing he hadn’t already unpacked, Misha insisted on making a supply run to the nearest Target. “Most of the stuff will probably be somewhat cheaper at Wal-Mart, but we shouldn’t buy from them. They support all the wrong things,” he adds by way of explanation over the fifteen-minute drive.

They make it to the cashier, soon to be about two hundred dollars poorer, and while standing in line, Sam digs into the side pocket of his knapsack for the extra cash he’d been saving up for when he got here. Finding it, he slips it into his wallet, pulling out two Benjamins before pocketing it.

“Hey, I think you dropped this,” Misha says beside him, reaching under the cart to pick something up.

When the other stands, Sam sees it’s his old rosary. He’s surprised by the relief he feels when the silver cross doesn’t burn where it touches Misha’s skin. He hadn’t even realized he’d suspected his roommate of being any number of non-humans in disguise.

“Are you religious?” the other asks, running his thumb over the effigies with what seems like fondness.

He pauses to think before answering. While he does pray every night, he’s no churchgoer, and he certainly doesn’t know any part of Scripture that doesn’t help in slaying evil beings. “Not particularly,” he decides at last. Not in the traditional sense of the word, at least. “It’s a gift from an old family friend.” Pastor Jim gave it to him long ago, and he doesn’t even use it to pray; he kept it around for making holy water.

“Yeah, me neither,” Misha says as they reach their turn. “I think it doesn’t matter what you believe as long as you’re kind to everyone.”

“Yeah, I can get behind that,” their cashier —Rachael, says the nametag— chimes in with a smile as she rings them up. “If only more people lived by that philosophy.”

Sam smiles as he pays, while Misha begins bagging their purchases in the reusable shopping bags he brought, and wonders how he ever thought his roommate might be a monster. He needs to stop thinking like that, like a paranoid hunter. _Like Dad._ He shakes himself. This is normal. He needs to start acting like it.

~*~

Like any new Stanfordite, Misha had no idea who his roommate would be until he returned from his trip to check out lofting materials. He’d never minded being too weird for most of his peers, but he’d also never had to live with any of them, and he had to admit that not knowing what to expect made him a little nervous. He certainly, however, hadn’t expected a giant puppy —for that was the only word he could think of to describe Sam’s combination of pettably messy hair, dewy olive green eyes and endearing, shy smile— much less one who liked him from the start. Not tolerated, not accepted, but actually, honestly _liked_ him.

As vague details of the story came out over dinner, (he didn’t press much because Sam obviously didn’t really want to talk about it) he figured out that Stanford was Sam’s home now, for better or worse, since his father said not to come back if he left. Sam’s family also moved around a lot, so he’d never really lived in Lawrence, and a family friend’s salvage yard in South Dakota was the closest thing he knew of to a home. He had to say he was surprised the sasquatch wasn’t at Stanford under the athletics program for basketball and also impressed that Sam had gotten a full ride here after a lifetime of moving from school to school. He didn’t know what the family business was, or why Sam seemed constantly worried that someone or something might jump out of nowhere to attack him at any moment, but he was pretty sure he couldn’t handle a family that would disown him for wanting to choose his own path in life. He’s really close to his mother, and she’d always been a fount of unconventional ideas and unconditional love in his life.

Now, at the end of orientation, he’s also positive Sam is his new favorite person — sob story, secrets and all. Stepping out takes courage, getting into Stanford takes brains, but above all, Sam is _kind,_ and it shows in his every action — no matter his own situation, Sam will always try to help someone else in need. Add that to the way he tries make their room feel like home, which it now is to him, and Sam’s the Emerald City to Misha’s yellow brick road in finding the ideal person to live with. It’s obvious from how often the name ‘Dean’ pops up that Sam was very close to his older brother and misses him terribly. But Dean not taking his side in the final family drama is also clearly still a sore point, so Misha chooses not to point out that there’s this thing called a phone.

They’re back in their room now that he’s owned Sam at Twister after being soundly defeated at Cranium, when he decides to bring one last thing up. “Oh, just so there are no surprises, I should probably mention that I’m pansexual.”

Sam rinses his mouth as he finishes brushing his teeth at the sink and spits the water out before answering, “Well, you do seem the type,” with a grin.

Misha scowls. “Hey. What’s that supposed to mean?”

Laughing as he wipes his face with a towel, Sam jokes, “Unusual people have unusual tastes?”

“Oh, so you do think I’m weird!” He pokes Sam in the chest with a finger. “I’ll have you know—”

“That you won’t be bringing any creepers home?” Sam continues teasing, catching hold of Misha’s hands.

“That they’re not creepers, you ass.”

Despite that, it’s clear Sam is unfazed, and Misha doesn’t expect the relief that washes over him. He’s not used to caring what others think of that, and he wasn’t expecting Sam to mind, even if the sasquatch does come off pretty all-American hetero, from the way he was checking out only the girls earlier, but... it’s nice not even needing to explain it for once.

He twists his hands out of Sam’s grip and finally gives in to his weeklong temptation to vigorously ruffle the other’s soft brown hair like he would the fur of a particularly shaggy dog. And when Sam picks him up after he’s ignored the other’s repeated protests and threatens to throw him out the window, it feels like everything is right with the world, and Misha thinks it’s the perfect start to a great year.

~*~

"Hey," Misha greets Sam from his desk as Sam walks into their room.

Sam smiles tiredly as he drops his bag and flops back on his bed. "Hey." He has barely seen his roommate all week, between classes and work, and he's starting to doubt he can really do this many units at once.

"You up for dinner, or do you want me to grab you something?"

Misha really is every bit the sweetheart Sam met that first day, however, and after the slew of roommate horror stories he’s heard, he's truly glad to have found a good friend in his. He sits up.

"Yeah, I'll come with you. I haven't seen you since classes started."

Fighting his exhaustion is worth it for the way Misha lights up. "Great! Just at Lakeside, nice and near. How many units are you doing this quarter anyway?"

"Eighteen," he answers as they start walking down.

"Oh God, you _are_ crazy." Misha slaps him on the shoulder, and he jumps a little because no one but Dean has ever been so physically affectionate with him. He’s noticed that Misha is a very tactile person. He doesn’t mind though; it just takes a little getting used to. "Guess it's up to me to remind you that there's a life out there, huh? Actually, I might even have to keep you alive."

Sam smiles gratefully. “I’m starting to think the reality is just going to be you bringing me coffee every night."

Misha grins as they step out into the cool evening air. "I can do that."

~*~

Sam has made some new friends in his classes, and true to Misha’s word, Brady, Aaron and Sandra all think his roommate is pretty weird. They did laugh at Misha’s comical impressions of his professors’ antics in various very accurate accents though. Misha doesn’t like Brady, and the feeling might be mutual. On the other hand, Sam’s also met Vicki, Erin and Toby, and he doesn’t like Erin, so he figures they’re even. He also sprinkled holy water on them all before sharply reminding himself that he doesn’t have to do that here, that he really needs to _stop_ doing that here. _Normal,_ he tells himself, _starts with you._

As he walks out of class into the early afternoon sun, he takes out his cell phone to call Misha. He has about an hour and a half before his next class. The dinner was two weeks ago, and he hasn’t seen his roommate since. Whenever he gets back from work, group meetings or class, Misha is always either out or already asleep.

“Sam!” Misha’s voice is cheery over the line. “What’s up?”

“Want to get lunch? I have ninety minutes.”

“You have no idea how much I’d rather be having lunch with you than waiting for my turn in this hall.”

“Your turn for?”

“Auditions. TAPS plays. I tried my hand at acting once before I moved here, and it was fun, so I thought I’d try some stage. I heard it’s really different, and I could use the practice and experience.”

Acting? He’s starting to wonder if there’s anything Misha doesn’t do. “Where are they?”

“The Nitery.” That’s not far.

“Well, have you eaten? I could grab sandwiches and come meet you.”

“Oh, Sam!” Misha gasps in an overly dramatic impression of a love-struck teenager. “You must be an angel!”

It takes some effort to stop laughing long enough to ask, “Okay, okay, what do you want?”

“Roast chicken and bacon, pepper jack cheese, all the vegetables and honey mustard. Could you have them toast my peppers and onions too? Oh, and get one for Vicki? She’s here keeping me sane. The same but in a spinach wrap with no bacon and Italian dressing instead.”

When he’s gotten the three sandwiches, he makes his way over to the Nitery to find a crowd waiting outside the theater doors. Misha waves him over excitedly and makes a kissy face at him when he hands over the sandwich. He also passes Vicki her wrap, and she thanks him before returning her attention to her gender studies book. He’s barely sat down beside Misha when a thin blonde steps out of the theater and calls for a “Mister... Dmitri Tippens Krushnic?”

Vicki slaps a hand over her mouth to muffle her giggles, and he blinks as everyone looks around the room.

“Wow,” he remarks quietly, taking out his own sandwich. “That name exists? Dmitri Krushnic? No, wait, Tippens Krushnic? Really?”

Vicki dissolves into more hysterical giggling even as Misha stands up.

“ _Misha Collins,_ damn it,” he corrects sullenly, dropping his unopened sandwich in Sam’s lap before picking his way across the room. “I am changing it on all official records as soon as this quarter is over. Vicki, stop laughing.”

Sam turns to Vicki. “Seriously?”

She’s laughing too hard to do much more than nod in reply. Misha. Dmitri Tippens Krushnic. He bursts out laughing too, and Misha turns to glare at him. It only makes him laugh more.

“Don’t worry,” Vicki says breathlessly when she can finally speak again. “Just... distract him with llamas.”

~*~

Sam likes working in the library. It’s quiet, the hours are nice, and he can study when it’s slow, as he’s doing now. If the rest of his shift goes on like this, he’ll be done with the week’s assigned reading for his Law and Public Policy class by the end of it, and then he can turn in early and feel more energized for his biweekly morning run with Misha. It’s an easy way to both work out and spend time together, and they usually end it with some fountain hopping and breakfast. Just as he’s wishing he’ll be left relatively undisturbed for the next two hours, someone comes up to the desk.

“Hey there, big boy~”

He doesn’t have to look up to know it’s his best friend, here to troll him in a rare visit to the library. When he does look up, he takes in Misha’s cheery outfit —jeans paired with a navy hoodie over a bright orange T-shirt and equally bright orange tennis shoes— and plays along with his best saucy grin.

“And just how may I help you today, handsome?”

His roommate leans in closer to whisper conspiratorially, “Well, see, I’ve got this crush on one of the librarians working here? He’s really hot and about yay tall;” he indicates approximately six inches taller than him with one hand, “and really smart;” he bats his eyelashes flirtatiously, “and I was just wondering if you knew when his shift ends so I could stalk him to his room?”

Sam snorts and swats Misha on the shoulder. “Now that’s just creepy. What are you doing here anyway?”

“Flirting with the hot librarian in hopes he’ll locate my research materials for me?” Blue eyes turn hopeful.

Sam rolls his eyes and holds out his hand. “Give me the list.”

Misha’s grin widens with delight as he hands over the crumpled note. “Oh, you _are_ the best.”

Once he’s looked up all the materials on the system, Sam stands. “So you want to come with or wait here?”

Misha falls into step beside him. “Seriously, what time do you get done here tonight?”

“Ten,” he replies, turning left as he reaches the right row of shelves to find the first book.

“I should be done with these around then too. Come find me in the reading room when you’re done?”

He grins. “Sure. Let’s grab a bite at TAP on the way back too. I didn’t have time for dinner earlier.”

“You sure you’ll last that long?”

“Yup.” He hands Misha a hefty tome on the list. “Because you’re doing the heavy lifting.”

 

Burgers, salads and smoothies later, they’re walking back to West Lag when they hear a boy apologizing profusely. “Look, guys, I’m so sorry I forgot. It’s just... been a long week, okay? I’m sorry! I swear I’ll make it up to you. It’s just one quiz. Prof says he’ll drop two. I won’t forget again, I swear!”

“That’s supposed to be for the two lowest that aren’t zeroes, you ninny. What do we have you for?” One of the two bigger guys pulls his fist back, and Sam catches his wrist before he can punch.

“How about you two do your own work for a change?” It’s hard to believe there are still Dirks and Barrys at a place like Stanford, but maybe not everyone grows up by the time they reach university.

“And what’s it to you?” the other bully asks as both brutes round on him.

Sam squares his shoulders and straightens; at his full height, he has about two inches on them both. They’re bulkier, but he’s going to bet they haven’t been raised fighting superhuman monsters. “Just can’t stand the sight of you lazy jerks trying to ditch classes by making someone else do the hard work.”

“Oh yeah? Well, I just can’t stand the sight of your face.”

The first guy takes a swipe, but Sam ducks and elbows him in the gut before dodging the second guy’s punch and sending him sprawling with a kick to the back of the knees. The first backs away, doubled over, as the second picks himself up. Realizing they are well and truly outmatched, they take off, shouting over their shoulders that they’ll remember this. Once he’s made sure they’re most definitely not coming back, Sam turns to find Misha coming over with the other kid.

“You’re a ninja, aren’t you? Secretly?” Misha demands, blue eyes glinting.

Sam laughs. “What? No. Come on, Mish. This?” He indicates his full 6’4” stature. “Not stealthy at all.”

“Hey, um...” The other kid is a few inches shorter than Misha and somewhat mousy. “Thanks for that.”

“Hey, no problem. Can’t let people get away with this.”

“Sometimes people really suck.” Misha pulls a face somewhere between a pout and a grimace, but then reaches up to wrap an arm around Sam’s shoulders and cheers up. “I still think you’re a ninja. And I was just telling your homeboy here that he should come hang with us. Isn’t that right, Ed?”

“Um, yeah. You guys live halfway across campus from me though. I’m in Branner. Classics major. Don’t think we’ll run into each other much.” Ed laughs nervously.

“Hey! I read dead languages too,” Sam protests. “And two of my Thinking Matters classes this quarter are from your department.”

“Really?” Both Ed and Misha turn to look at him.

“Which?” Ed asks. “Sorry, I mean the dead languages,” he clarifies, adjusting his glasses.

“Um... Some Latin, a bit of Greek and a bit of Aramaic?”

“What are you, Templar? Illuminati?” Misha asks with exaggerated suspicion. “Wait, I know; you’re in SHIELD, aren’t you?”

Ed actually rolls his eyes before turning back to Sam. “Wow, first time I’ve met someone who knows Aramaic. That’s really cool. Well, I guess I’ll see you around then. But now, I gotta get back. Oh, um... I’m Edwin Broderick, by the way.” He holds out his hand.

Sam shakes it. “Sam Winchester.”

“Right. Glad I ran into you. Again, thanks so much for earlier. Uh... Night, guys.”

Misha and Sam watch Edwin walk away for several moments before they too start heading back.

“Think he’ll be okay?”

“I hope so.” Sam shoots a look back over his shoulder. “Should we have offered to walk him back?”

“You mean to ask if we should have tried to make him feel more awkward than he already did, which was... pretty fucking awkward. Is that the question? Yeah, no, probably not,” Misha admits.

Sam hums in agreement as they turn onto Santa Teresa Street. Misha slips an arm through his, and really, Misha is about a hundred times more physically affectionate than Dean would likely ever be.

“Well, I still think you’re in some badass secret society, and you’d better tell me all about it one day and initiate me,” he insists petulantly. “Wait, that’s it!” He snaps his fingers. “This is the Matrix, and you’re awake in the real world, right? Come on, give me the red pill too!”

Sam buries his face in his hands. In some ways, Misha is an even bigger geek than Dean. “I’m not— This isn’t—” He sighs. “Misha, you’re confusing fantasy and reality again.”

“That’s what they all say when they’re trying to keep their superhero identities a secret.”

Despite the context, it’s uncomfortably close to the truth, so Sam doesn’t reply. Sometimes, he wishes it were all as glamorous as fiction makes it out to be, but that’s so far from the gritty reality he grew up with.

“But... I’m proud that we’re friends,” Misha adds out of the blue, growing serious. “Sometimes, I wonder why people can’t all be kind to each other. But yeah, you did a grand thing back there. Not a lot of people would have done it, you know?” His grip on Sam’s arm tightens a little. “Some wouldn’t dare, and some wouldn’t care. He was a complete stranger, and yet... Maybe we can’t stop every bad thing in the world from happening, but... just tonight? We changed something for the better. And maybe it’s small, or maybe it’s life altering, but it matters. I've always believed that all you need is one good man to make a difference. So um... Thanks. For uh... having more good in you than you know.”

Sam ducks his head to hide a blush. “Did you... just quote both Captain America _and_ The Hobbit?”

Misha punches him in the arm. “Couldn’t you have said ‘you’re welcome’ or something and left it at that?”

He pulls the orange scrunchy off and musses Misha’s light brown hair as they climb the stairs. His roommate’s “Hey!!” of protest dissolves quickly into giggles, and by the time they reach their room, Sam’s quite sure a few of their neighbors will be less than pleased at breakfast. It’s not his fault Misha has a distinctive giggle.

~*~

It’s hot. There’s fire everywhere, it’s searing his skin where he stands, and the stench of burning flesh is overwhelming. He’s in a bathroom, and a girl lies dead in the flames, sprawled in unnatural angles over the toilet seat, her clothing ripped to shreds burning up in curling tendrils. She looks kinda familiar, but he can’t place her. There’s blood in the toilet, on the floor, splattered on the walls, and he tries to back out of the cubicle, but he can’t — something’s rooting him to the spot.

Pieces of flesh melt off the girl’s bones, and he claps his hands over his mouth — he’s going to be sick, he can feel it rising in his throat, and he can’t—

Sam sits up with a gasp and manages to fight the gagging long enough to make it to the sink in the faint light of dawn. It’s mostly bile that comes up, not much food left in his stomach, but the acrid aftertaste it leaves in his throat despite brushing his teeth is foul, and he can practically taste the smoke and burning flesh under the mint of the toothpaste.

“Sam?”

He rinses his mouth one last time and washes his face before turning to his roommate. With his sleep-mussed chestnut hair sticking out in odd places, bleary blue eyes and the languid way he stretches as he yawns, Misha looks like a giant kitten that just rolled out of its basket, and in spite of the nightmare, Sam finds himself smiling. “Hey,” he says softly, reaching out to flick at a few stray locks of hair by Misha’s ear with the tips of his fingers, and the other even reacts just like a cat would, tilting his head into the contact even as he moves out of reach. It is the most adorable thing Sam has ever seen. “Morning, kitty,” he adds with a grin.

“Hey,” Misha protests, swatting his shoulder as he slips past. “Not a kitten. I’m... I’m a she-llama.”

“A she-llama?” Sam bursts out laughing and feels better for it. “Where the hell did that come from?”

Misha shrugs as he picks up his orange toothbrush. “What are you doing up so early, anyway?”

Not wanting to think about the dream, Sam evades with “I just... woke up.”

“Mm, join me for breakfast?”

He’s too awake to return to bed, so he runs a hand through his hair and goes to change. “Yeah, sure.”

They walk through the crisp morning air over to Lakeside in companionable silence. It’s not too crowded at this hour, so it’s easy to find a quiet table to sit at with their waffles, fruit salad, eggs and bacon. Misha digs into his breakfast with gusto, but Sam can’t seem to get the taste of bile out of his mouth, and not even the syrup on the waffles sits well on his tongue. He manages about a quarter of the waffle and half the fruit before he can’t anymore, and even the sight and smell of the bacon and eggs make him queasy.

“I’m done,” he says sitting back and pushing his plate away. He’ll probably be hungry later, but he doubts he’ll have the appetite. Even the food he’s already eaten is churning uncomfortably i— “Ow!”

Misha thwacked his arm with a spoon hard enough to bruise. “Don’t waste food,” he chides with a frown. “There are people starving out there.”

Sam rubs his sore arm. “I know.” He remembers, clearly, the time Dean looked longingly at the last can of spaghetti-O’s before giving it to him, not knowing whether or not Dad would be back the next day with money for more food, remembers wondering just how many times before —when he was younger and didn’t notice things like these— Dean had done exactly the same thing and given him the last of their food, remembers insisting on sharing because he knew better now. “I know. I just...” He catches another whiff of bacon and eggs and has to clamp a hand over his mouth as he nearly gags, pushing his chair further back from the table.

His roommate’s face instantly clouds with worry. “Hey.” Misha is on his feet and by his side in an instant, a grounding hand on his shoulder, and the spicy scent of Misha’s cinnamon aftershave seems to settle his protesting stomach a little. “Sam? You okay?”

“Yeah.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little queasy.”

“I’m sorry I hit you with a spoon,” Misha mumbles guiltily, rubbing around the darkening spot on Sam’s arm in a likely futile attempt to keep it from bruising too badly.

“It’s okay. You didn’t know.”

“Yes, and I should have asked. I’m sorry.”

He covers Misha’s hand with his own and smiles up reassuringly. “Mish, it’s okay.”

“Get some tea?” Misha suggests, tentative. “Or PowerAde? Might help settle your stomach.”

He nods, standing. “I’ll do that. Tea sounds good.”

“Try peppermint or ginger. It’s good for nausea.”

When he returns with a steaming cup of ginger spice tea, Misha has started on his half-eaten food, and he’s reminded of Dean; his brother never left food on the table either —it was either finish it or pack it to go— and he wonders if maybe Misha has been there too — hungry, not knowing whether he’ll have food that day. The thought haunts him as he sips at his tea and makes him reach for a piece of melon. It goes down all right, so he pulls the bowl over. Concerned blue eyes flick to him in question.

“I think I can manage the rest of the fruit,” he offers, and Misha smiles sunnily around a mouthful of waffle.

~*~

"Saaam," Misha whines from his bed. "Why am I not twenty-one yet? Why is my birthday in August?"

It’s Friday evening, Misha has nothing better to do for once, and there’s apparently a drag show at this nearby club that he really wants to see tonight, but it’s twenty-one and up only. Sam, of course, has work in the morning and assignments to finish tonight, so he can’t afford to go out, in more ways than one.

“You realize that only means you just had your birthday recently, and if it were coming up, you’d be even younger?” he points out, his eyes never leaving his laptop screen as he keeps typing.

His roommate flings a cushion at him, which he deflects easily before resuming work on his paper on the philosophy of justice.

“Hmph, I thought you were a nice person.”

Sam laughs. “So you want me to lie to you?”

“No,” Misha groans. “I want you to be sympathetic.”

“I am, Mish, I am,” he murmurs, placating, not a pause in his typing. “What do you want me to say?”

“C’mon, Sam, you have two weeks to finish that paper. Help me figure out how I’m going to sneak in instead.”

Distractedly — _Where was that paragraph I wanted to quote here again?_ —, he offers, “I don’t know, man. Use a fake ID or pick the lock on the back door?”

Misha twists around in his loft. “Sam,” he intones seriously. “You look at me now, young man.”

Sam finishes his sentence and turns, bitchface in full force. “Fine. Fine. Are you happy now?”

Misha’s face splits into a delighted grin. “Nope, but have I told you lately that you’re brilliant? Criminal, but brilliant? Now, just tell me you have the know-how to back those ideas up.”

 _Shit._ Sam groans internally as he realizes what he suggested, but the moment of silence is all the confession his best friend needs.

“Oh my God, you do!” Excitedly, Misha climbs down and takes his hand to tug him to his feet. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me earlier. Now, come on, get changed. You’re coming with me.”

“What?” Sam twists his hand out of Misha’s grip and stands his ground. “The hell I’m coming with you. I told you I can’t go out tonight.”

“Then how are you going to pick the lock for me? Oh, you’re going to tell me where I can get a fake ID! Wait, how _do_ you know where to get one around here? You haven’t even been here that long!”

Sam sighs, long-suffering, and sits back down. “I don’t. I never said I knew how to accomplish either.”

Misha curls a knee under himself to pull his chair closer and slide into it dejectedly. “But earlier...” he deflates further. “Look, I know we haven’t known each other for very long, and I’m silly _and_ a terrible influence, but man, you didn’t have to crush my dreams like that.”

Sam takes in the sight of pouty, morose Misha, feels something inside crumble even though he’s learned by now that his roommate can be a manipulative little shit, and knows he’s been had when he finally sticks out his hand and mutters, “Let me see your driver’s license.” He’s used to having that effect on Dean, and he never thought he’d ever be on the receiving end, but there’s something about making Misha sad that feels a bit criminal.

Misha looks up in question, but hands the blue-green card over regardless, and Sam inspects it under his desk lamp. It doesn’t actually look too hard to reproduce, not compared to FBI badges anyway.

“I can’t believe you’re older than me,” he remarks as he turns back to his laptop.

Misha makes a wretched sound that’s half-snort-half-sniffle. “That’s fucked up, Sam. You shouldn’t be judging me. Why are you judging me?”

“I’m not judging you, Mish,” he replies, rolling his eyes as he looks through his old files. Aha! He even has a template for Massachusetts. “If I were, I’d ditch your sorry ass and go write my paper in the lounge.”

The other sighs, scooting closer to plant his cheek on Sam’s broader shoulder. That’s when he catches sight of the screen. “Sam, is that...?”

“I swear to God, Mish, if you breathe a word of this to anyone...”

Misha practically squeals in delight. “Scout’s honor!” he promises with a mock salute. “Seriously though, you don’t know how to loft a bed, but you can make fake IDs? Where are you even from?”

Sam laughs humorlessly. “A Chevy ‘67 Impala.”

“I still think you’re Jason Bourne.”

“What, no more Thor or Neo?” He cuts his eyes towards his best friend with a grin.

Misha giggles. “Nope, they’re flashier, and they don’t make fake IDs. But you, o’ best roommate in the universe, can be my superhero anytime~”

~*~

“Oh my God. Vicki. _Vicki._ ” Misha grips her shoulders. “You are not going to believe this. I got Candis Cayne, Erica Andrews and Yoshiko Oshiro to sign my gluteus maximus!”

They’re at the Main Quad, and he can barely keep his voice down from sheer excitement.

“What? No way.”

“Yes way. Do you want to see?” He’s practically bouncing with glee, and people are staring, which isn’t that unusual for him.

“Here? No! How the fuck did you even get in?”

“I— No. I swore I wouldn’t tell a soul. But the point is? Sam? He’s in SHIELD, I tell you.”

Vicki rolls her eyes. “Mish. Fantasy.” She points at his head. “Reality.” She gestures around them.

“Fine. Fine, not SHIELD.” He sits down beside her. “But Secret Service. Or KGB. Or something.”

She laughs. “Okay. So your puppy of a roommate is secretly a spy. Point is he got you in.”

“Yes. No, point is he’s all kinds of amazing, and I’m going to knit him a sweater.”

Vicki looks up from her laptop to stare at him in horror. “Look, Mish, I’m only telling you this because I love you, but no. No, you are not knitting him a sweater. You have terrible taste in sweaters. This is a horrible idea.”

“I know! But that’s the point exactly! I’ve checked. He doesn’t have any ugly sweaters!” Misha turns pleading eyes on her. “Come on, Vick, you know everyone needs an ugly sweater. What’s he going to do on Christmas?”

“Well, when you put it that way...”

“I’ll even put a giant reindeer on it!”

Vicki shakes her head in sympathy as she turns back to her work. “Oh man, I feel bad for him already.”

~*~

Sam is on the way out of his Law and Public Policy class when Brady claps a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey man, what are you doing this Friday?”

“Probably finishing another paper.” Sam adjusts the strap of his knapsack.

“C’mon, man, it’s friggin’ Halloween. The best parties happen on Halloween weekend! You’ve got to come out with us, Sam! Kappa Sigma’s having a huge party, and tons of people are going.”

Sam rolls his eyes as they step out into the late afternoon sunshine. “Brady, I don’t even like Halloween. Why in the world would I want to go to Halloween party?”

“Dude, just pretend it’s any other kind of party. Have you even been to one of these parties yet?” He only pauses long enough to catch the ‘obviously not’ look on Sam’s face. “No? Then you’ve gotta come this Friday. The booze is on free flow, and all the chicks are going to be in sexy costumes. I’ll even come pick you up.”

“Are we talking about a Halloween party?” It’s Misha, falling in step on Sam’s other side as they near Granada.

“Hey, Mish,” he greets with a smile, and Misha grins right back up at him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he catches a flash of irritation on Brady’s face before his classmate continues, “Yeah. KSig is having an awesome one this Friday night, and I’m trying to get Sam here to go.”

“Kappa Sigma?” Misha’s expression turns bemused. “Funny, Erin was just inviting me to that. Her boyfriend, Keith, is a KSig. I told her I’d check it out.”

“Hah! See? Even Misha is going,” Brady declares triumphantly, and Sam’s shoulders sag a little in defeat.

“What do you mean ‘even’ I’m going?” Misha protests, annoyed, as they reach the front door of Granada.

“I mean it’s just that awesome, and Sam, if your roommate’s going, you have no excuse. I’ll come get you at seven, and we can all walk there together. Ciao!” Brady takes off in the direction of Schiff with a wave.

“Hmph,” Misha scoffs as they walk up to their room. “What are you going as, Sam?”

Oh man, now even Misha is talking like his going is a foregone conclusion. He sighs resignedly. “Myself?”

“What?” His best friend’s scandalized face is a sight to behold. “It’s a _Halloween_ party, Sam. You can’t _not_ dress up.”

“Fine,” he squares his shoulders firmly. “Then I’m not going. Dude, I hate Halloween.”

“Aww, Sam, don’t give me that face.” Misha unlocks the door to their room and they step inside. “C’mon, man, it’s our first Halloween at university. Let’s have some fun together. I’ll even go in drag.”

Sam can’t help snorting a laugh even as he turns to his roommate incredulously. “What?”

“You heard me. Tell you what.” Blue eyes twinkle with glee as Misha’s voice rises in excitement. “You go as Captain America, and I’ll go as Sharon Carter.”

“What? No.” He doesn’t even like superheroes that much. They remind him of Dean telling him for years that Dad was a superhero — not only a fantasy, but an utterly ruined one.

“But but— you have the Steve Rogers height and build!” Misha whines with a pout. “Come on, Sam, my first Halloween costume that I can remember was Captain America, but something fell apart in it, and I—” His voice cracks a little. “I ended up crying my eyes out all night because I wanted it to be perfect, and it _wasn’t._ I couldn’t even get into trick-or-treating; I was so _miserable._ ” His eyes tear up. “So I haven’t tried to pull it off again since, but you! You’d be a great Captain America, and there wouldn’t be any point in doing Agent 13 without a Cap, right? So Saaaam, pleeeaaase?”

And even though he knows Misha is an excellent actor and that the sob story was probably a lot less emotional than his best friend made it out to be, Sam’s never been able to say “no” to those teary, pleading blue eyes, which is how he ends up costume shopping with Misha after classes on Wednesday and showing up at the frat party as Captain America on Friday night. He’s not the least bit sorry that Misha paid for the costume —it was Misha’s idea, after all—, and he has to admit that it looks good. Meanwhile, Misha looks way too convincing as Sharon Carter —he’d never really noticed till then how easily Misha could pass as a pretty girl—, and the look of stunned disbelief on Brady’s face might well be worth the entire ordeal.

After a flurry of introductions from both Brady and Erin, through which more than a few guys flirted with Misha and not all of them stopped when they realized he isn’t female, Brady presses a glass of punch into his hands and tells him there’s someone he’d like Sam to meet. He follows his classmate through the throng of people swaying to the thumping bass of the music into another room.

“Lindsay!” Brady greets enthusiastically, and a bubbly redhead with emerald fairy wings turns.

She sets her drink down on the cocktail table before running over to give him a hug. “Hey! Brady!”

Brady gathers her into his arms and lifts her a foot off the floor before setting her down. “Sam, this is my cousin, Lindsay,” he says, leading them all over to the cocktail table where a sweet-faced blonde dressed as a Greek goddess is waiting. “And this is her roommate, Jess. Girls, this is my buddy, Sam.”

Jess smiles as she holds out her hand, and Sam thinks she does look like a goddess in that flowing white dress that hangs alluringly over her toned curves. “Jessica Moore. Nice to meet you, Sam...?”

He takes it; her hand is soft and warm. “Winchester. Sam Winchester.”

“Lindsay Manning.” He shakes hands with Brady’s cousin; her grip is firmer than Jessica’s.

Turning back to Jess, he asks, “So you’re a freshman too?”

“Yup. I’m thinking of doing Chemistry, but some of these other classes I’m taking are really interesting too, so I might change my mind.” She tilts her head, and her blond waves cascade over her shoulder. “What about you?” Her blue eyes twinkle. “Set your heart on a major yet, Captain?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, feeling inexplicably shy. “Only thing I’m sure of is I want to go to law school.”

“Oh, so you’re like Brady here,” Lindsay cuts in with a grin. Her bright green eyes match her shimmery dress.

“Yup, one of mine,” Brady agrees, slinging an arm over his shoulders. “We have Law and Public Policy together this quarter, and Sam here is too smart for his own good. Or too diligent. Whichever works.”

Sam laughs. “What about you?” He turns to Lindsay.

“Me? Management and Marketing. Dad wants me prepped to join the family business, and hey,” she shrugs. “I like it. I mean, there are other things I like more, but I can do those as hobbies.”

He can’t help squaring his shoulders a little at the words “family business,” but who is he to remark on that if she likes it? So instead he turns back to Jess and asks about those other classes she likes.

“I have Psych, Lit and Theatre History, and they’re all unexpectedly cool.”

“Gonna be one of those people who change their majors every year?” Lindsay teases.

Jess laughs. She has a nice laugh, warm and cheery. “Doubt it. I’ll bet most of them are only nice at intro level.”

“You know what?” Brady asks, surveying their empty cups. “Be right back. I’m gonna get us more punch.”

“Thanks, hun!” Lindsay calls after him as he leaves with their cups just as the music shifts into a catchy number that opens with rap.

“Oh! Crazy in Love! I love this song!” Jess says suddenly, grabbing his and Lindsay’s hands. “Let’s go dance!”

And Sam has no idea how to dance, but apparently, Lindsay says most people don’t either, and when they all join the mass of gyrating costumed bodies and Jess just starts rocking it out to the music, Sam realizes she’s right: no one cares, and he should just try to have fun.

~*~

Several hours of being hit on by Keith’s frat brothers later, Misha realizes he hasn’t seen his new best friend since Erin dragged him over to meet her boyfriend, and Brady led Sam away to meet other friends. So he excuses himself to find his roommate. After looking in a few rooms, he finally finds Sam on a couch with a shapely Wonder Woman straddling his lap. Sam is giggly and red in the face as he drains the full glass of punch in his hand before pulling her closer to mumble something in her ear that makes her laugh, and when Misha finally makes it through the crowd to their side, she’s started trailing kisses down Sam’s neck.

“Hey!” he says loudly, dropping into the couch beside them and feeling oddly satisfied with the interruption. “I was just about to leave, and I was wondering if you wanted to come with, but I’m guessing you’re not coming back tonight?”

“Well, you could always join us, cutie,” Wonder Woman offers with a flirty once over. Now that he’s closer, she appears to be Hispanic and quite attractive.

“Hey! You’re back!” Sam wraps an arm around him, and oh boy, from the slur in his roommate’s words, he’s going to bet Sam can’t even walk on his own at this point. “I think Bella here—”

“Vera,” she corrects, and now she looks miffed, as if she expected him to get her name right in his state.

“Right. Vela. I think she has the right idea! We sh—”

“Okay, okay, I think you’re coming with me right now.” Vera rolls her eyes and slides off Sam without protest when he tugs on his best friend’s arm, and he offers her an apologetic look. If Sam is proposing that they all have an orgy, he must be pretty fucking drunk. “Up now, Sam. Let’s go.” He hefts Sam’s arm over his shoulder, and Sam obligingly stumbles out of the seat, leaning heavily on him.

“Bye~” He waves at Vera, giggling as he follows Misha to the door. “I had a great time!” Okay, make that stupidly drunk.

Somehow, they manage not to fall down the stairs as they walk out into the slightly chilly night air, and Misha is eternally grateful that Sam is mostly walking by himself, because he doesn’t think he could support all 6’4” of sasquatch dead weight otherwise. It's a not a long walk to West Lag, but it is made a lot slower by Sam’s drunken meandering.

“Do you know? I didn’t always hate Halloween.” His speech is slurred and off hand. “I remember... Once, when I was a kid, I wanted to go trick-or-treating like all the other kids.”

“Yeah? What did you want to dress up as?”

“Dress... up...?” Sam’s brows furrow in confusion at the question. “Hmm... Oh!” He lifts a pointed finger and waves it vaguely. “I remember now. I wanted to be an angel.”

Misha smiles fondly. “An angel, huh? I think you’d look good with a halo.”

“Mm, I wanted to be... pure.” Sam giggles. “Dean said angels don’t exist though.”

Misha scoffed. “That’s fucked up. How does he even know? Maybe they do, maybe they don’t, but he shouldn’t try to disillusion you of your faith.”

“And Dad...” Sam continues as if he hadn’t spoken. “Dad wouldn’t let me go anywhere on Halloween. He said it wasn’t safe, and why do people want to dress up as things that go bump in the night anyway? And— and back then, I didn’t understand any of it. I just wanted to go be normal with the other kids, and I cried, and we fought, and he locked me in my room for the night. I was just so fucking angry and miserable.”

“Wow, no wonder you hate it.” The more he heard about Sam’s father, the less Misha liked the man.

"But get this." Sam grins. "Dean? He sneaked into my room in the dead of night, brought me a ton of candy and told me, 'Sammy, I know you really wanted to go out tonight, but why do all that lame door-to-door walking, right? I got you Starburst, Reese's and _Nips_ ~' Then he put a tinsel halo on my head and said, 'And I still think angels don't exist. But you can be the first. You can be my angel, Sammy.' And—"

"Aww…" Sam’s brother sounds like a sweetheart, and Misha thinks he'd get along smashingly with Dean if and when they meet someday.

"Right, and it was really sweet at the time, but like—" Sam dissolves into giggles here and nearly walks right into a pole, but Misha pulls him aside just in time. "I'd all but forgotten about it, but then—" Sam giggles some more, almost hysterical. "Get this." He breathes deeply in an effort to stop laughing long enough to speak. "Just recently, I went with him to the bar, and he totally pulled that line on this girl he was trying to pick up," more breathless giggling, and now Misha is snickering too, "and it was so surreal?"

“Oh my God.” Misha laughs. “Tell me you didn’t let him live that down.”

“Of course not! I ribbed him about it for weeks!”

They laugh together for a long time, and Misha marvels at how enjoyable he finds the company even when his new best friend is drunk off his ass. It’s nice. Vicki is a fun and wacky drunk, and he loves her for it, but Sam’s just that: nice. By the time Sam starts speaking again, they’ve reached Granada.

“Say, do you know why we dress up in costumes for Halloween?”

Misha has to prop Sam up now because he nearly fell flat on his face climbing the stairs to the front door, and that’s probably the last glass of punch kicking in, because Sam seems just barely conscious, and he even sounds like he’s sleep-talking.

“I read that it’s to ward off the harmful spirits and fairies that were believed to cross over into this world on Samhain, the related Celtic pagan festival.”

“Mm... You’re so cool...” Sam mumbles as they reach their room. “I really... like you...”

Misha fumbles for his keys and unlocks the door. “Thanks, Sam. I like you too,” he says with a chuckle. “Come on now.” He pulls Sam into the room with him and maneuvers around the giant to shut and lock the door behind him with one hand and one foot. As he tugs Sam towards the bed, he’s glad for once that Sam chose not to loft his bed, because Misha can’t imagine how his roommate would climb the slats in this state. “Okay, here we are. Y—oof!”

He tried to drop Sam onto the bed, but somehow, that went all wrong, and now he’s pinned beneath 192 pounds of drunk Captain America, and it’s _heavy_. It’s also uncomfortably warm and sweaty.

“Damn it, Sam, get off me!” He flails helplessly, pushing ineffectually at the dead weight atop him. “C’mon, man, I can’t breathe down here.” But Sam doesn’t budge, doesn’t even respond, and Misha deflates at the prospect of having to spend the entire night like this. “Saaam...” He shakes his best friend. “Oh, come on...”

Sam stirs, to his relief. “Hmm?” But instead of rolling off as he’d hoped, Sam suddenly nuzzles his neck. “Mm... You smell... _so_ good,” he murmurs.

Then Sam is alarmingly trailing kisses up the side of his neck, and Misha’s eyes widen. “S—Sam?”

Sam doesn’t answer, just traces the back of Misha’s ear with his tongue. They’re both dirty and sweaty; Sam reeks of cheap booze, saccharine cordial and three different perfumes, but more importantly, it’s Sam, his new best friend, roommate and the only person he’s ever enjoyed hanging out with as much as Vicki, and—

Oh God, it’s _Sam._

The reality of it hits him like a freight train as Sam scrapes his teeth over Misha’s jugular, and instead of grounding him as he’d hoped, the thought only makes this hotter.

_Shit._

“Sam?” He scrambles to push Sam’s head up and back. “Hey. Wh—”

“God, you’re beautiful,” Sam breathes reverently, olive green eyes bright in the faint illumination streaming in through the window; then he simply dips his head, and they’re kissing.

Drunk as the guy is, it’s not... clumsy, per se. It’s imprecise, but... exploring, as if Sam wants to _know_ him, and Misha is kissing him back before it even registers in his mind. Sam’s tongue slides slow and sweet along his own, and Misha whimpers as his blood goes rushing down. Fuck, but he’s never been so turned on by a mere kiss in his life, and when he angles his head to accommodate, Sam deepens the kiss — it’s ardent now, wanting, and like slipping into familiar ground, suddenly much more practiced. Who knew Sam would be such a good kisser?

It’s somewhere between ridiculous, embarrassing and pathetic that he’s leaking in his suddenly-too-tight costume from just this, but then Sam starts rocking their hips together, and he’s moaning helplessly into the kiss because _Oh God, Sam, fuck,_ he doesn’t think he’ll last very long. And when Sam breaks off to mouth at the other side of his neck, he pushes the face mask off to slide his hand into messy hair and tilts his own head back for better access, pulling Sam against him as he arches up into the friction.

“S—Sam,” he gasps as the other obliges with a sharper cant to his hips, and he turns to bury his face in Sam’s soft hair and inhale deeply of the other’s slightly spicy scent.

A hand cards through the hair of his blond wig as the other cups the turn of his hip. “Get this... It sounds crazy...” Sam chuckles, and Misha feels more than hears the rumble through the body pressed to his. “And cheesy as fuck, but... y’know? I think... I may be...” Every pause is punctuated by a nip at his collarbone and a buck of Sam’s hips, and God, Misha is so _close_. “A little bit... in love with you already.”

_Fuck._

The last has Misha curling into Sam and muffling his cry in brown hair as his vision whites out. He holds Sam to him as the other follows him with a soft groan moments later, and sighs resignedly as Sam just collapses atop him, breath evening out and deepening as sleep takes over. As his luck would have it, he’s still stuck spending the night like this, and it’s messy now, on top of hot, sweaty and heavy, but Misha has to admit, in the post-coital haze, it doesn’t seem so bad.

Misha wakes when Sam stirs to find that it is half past eight, and they both have to be at work in about two hours. He shoves at his roommate.

“Wake up, sunshine. C’mon, Sam, we need to go to work.”

Sam groans, props his head up tiredly with one hand, and cracks his eyes open blearily. “Wha— Mish?” He rolls off in a hurry and ends up falling gracelessly to the floor. “Ow! Shit.” He holds his head in his hands and grunts in pain. “Oh God, I am _so_ sorry, how long have I been out?”

“Hmm… By the time we got back here, it was maybe one in the morning?” he answers, stretching.

Sam runs a hand through his hair. “Oh man, and I’ve been… We’ve been sleeping like that the entire time? God, Mish, I’m really sorry. Dean says I’m a miserable drunk too. I hope I wasn’t too terrible to you.”

Misha smiles at the memory, looking down at his feet. “Actually, you were uh… really sweet to me.”

Sam heaves a sigh of relief at that. “Oh. Oh, that’s good. So uh… What happened? The last thing I remember was making out with some girl at the party.”

“Oh.” Misha isn’t quite prepared for the sudden weight in his chest or the lump in his throat the words bring. It’s awfully silly; it’s not like he expected anything to come of the previous night’s events. Aloud, he only takes a calming breath and swallows before saying, “Let’s see… I came to ask you if you were ready to leave when I was, found you with Wonder Woman in your lap, kept you from embarrassing yourself further by hauling your stupidly drunk ass back here, by which point I had to help you up the stairs and into the room, and then you collapsed on top of me when I tried to drop you on your bed. Since I couldn’t move you, I naturally ended up sleeping where I was.”

“Oh. Wow. Thanks, Mish. I’m really sorry about that. I’ll uh… I’ll make it up to you somehow, okay?”

He doesn’t know why he has to blink away the sharp sting in his eyes, but that’s his cue to get the hell out before he embarrasses himself. “Well, I’m going to shower,” he says, standing and grabbing his things. “The Advil is on the desk if you need it. You should probably grab one of my granola bars first though.” With that, he hightails it out of the room without looking back and reflects on how pathetic it is that he’s crying in the shower.

~*~

Misha has to admit he doesn’t know how to deal with his newly discovered attraction to his roommate, so he’s taken to avoiding being alone in the room with Sam. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy the company — of course he does, maybe too much. The problem is that Sam is _distracting._ Gone are the days when he could actually get work done around Sam. Now, even a stray lock of hair falling into his roommate’s face catches his eye till he realizes he’s staring longingly, wishing those long fingers were twirling his hair instead of the pen or up his a— No, no, no, he needs to stop thinking along these lines. He hasn’t even reached their room yet, damn it.

When he reaches the right door and unlocks it, he’s surprised to find Sam sitting on the bed, staring blankly at the cell phone in his hands. He’d chosen this time to return because Sam should be at work right now.

“Hey,” he greets with a smile. It’s too easy to smile around Sam, too hard to keep the love-struck sparkle out of his eyes.

Sam looks up, as if only now noticing his presence. Strange. Sam usually notices the slightest sounds of movement. “Hey. You cut your hair.”

“Yeah.” He sets his things down. “It was starting to be a hassle to dry.”

“It looks good,” Sam remarks with a grin, and it’s ridiculous that Misha is fighting down a blush. “I’m going to miss the scrunchies though. But I guess it’ll grow.”

He smacks Sam lightly on the arm to distract himself. “Ugh, at this rate, I’m going to have to keep it short. What are you doing here anyway? Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

Sam blinks, then looks at the clock on the desk. “Shit. Oh God. Well, not much point going now, I guess.” His face falls, and Misha has to clamp down on the sudden urge to kiss the smile back.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, stepping closer so they’re face-to-face.

Sam looks down at the cell phone. “I called Dean,” he says simply at length.

Misha wants to ask, “Isn’t that a good thing?” It’s obvious how much Sam misses his brother. But his roommate doesn’t seem happy at all. So instead, he asks, “What happened?”

The other’s lips thin, curl into a sardonic smile. “He…” Sam sniffs. “He said I walked out on our family. And since that’s my choice, I should stick with it. I walked out, so I should stay out and,” Sam’s voice cracks, “never call again.”

“Shit, Sam,” Misha mumbles, giving in to the impulse to hug. He wraps his arms around Sam’s head and pulls him in to bury his face in Misha’s thick blue hoodie. “I’m sorry.”

To his surprise, Sam returns the embrace, trembling arms folding around his hips, and takes deep, calming breaths.

“You have me,” he longs to say, twining his fingers in Sam’s soft brown hair, because he wants to be, and a small part of him is glad that _he’s_ here — not Brady, not Sandy, not that amazing girl Sam made out with at the party. He’s here for Sam even when no one else in the world is, not even Dean. “You’ll always have me.”

~*~

It’s Thanksgiving, and they have the week off. Sam, of course, doesn’t have a home to return to, which is how he finds himself in Boston with Misha, who was appalled at the idea of him spending Thanksgiving alone. Sam is disinclined to inform him that even if he had somewhere to go, Dad and Dean don’t really ever do anything for Thanksgiving. In fact, they’re likely to be out hunting the monster of the week anyway, and he can either join them or spend Thanksgiving alone regardless.

Rebecca is as sweet and wacky as her son, whom she sometimes calls Mish the Quiche (Misha says he used to be chubby, which is hard to imagine, so he even looked a bit like a quiche once), and it doesn’t feel like there’s even a generation gap to speak of. Sitting here in their small apartment waiting for the turkey to finish roasting seems an incredibly intimate affair, but he’s never made to feel like he’s intruding. Rebecca proudly shows off the wooden furniture and knitted throws that Misha made; Misha tells him that his mother quilted all the seat pads and sewed all the cushion covers herself. Misha has a modest Marvel Comics collection in his room, and he says he couldn’t afford to get every issue, but he has read them all, and the ones he bought are his favorites. Misha has a twin bed, so Sam will have to take the couch, but the couch is longer than the bed anyway, so that suits Sam just fine. It’s just them tonight, because Misha’s parents have been divorced for years, but his father will be here tomorrow.

Dinner is turkey, potato salad, and green bean casserole, and it’s possibly the best Thanksgiving dinner Sam’s ever had. Mostly, Misha talks about life at Stanford or growing up here in Boston, and they both listen, but occasionally, Rebecca will ask Sam something Misha hasn’t already told her about him, and he’ll answer what he can without mentioning the monster hunting. After dinner, feeling especially useless, Sam insists on doing the dishes.

Suddenly, Misha shows up in the kitchen, hands behind his back. “Hey~”

Sam turns to glance at him as he rinses a plate. “Hey. I’m almost done, don’t worry.”

Misha shakes his head and chuckles. “Take your time. Want a beer?”

He nods. “In a minute, sure. Just let me finish here.”

He rinses off the last few plates and cutlery, before wiping his hands on a hand towel hanging from a hook beside the sink. He turns to find Misha holding out a paper bag. “Here. Happy Thanksgiving, Sam.” His grin is at once cheery and shy as he bounces on his heels, and Sam suddenly feels like a terrible person.

“Oh my God. Mish. I— Uh… I didn’t get you anything, and you’ve alr—“

“Well, if you help me thoroughly clean the apartment this week, I’ll consider us even. Deal?”

He smiles and takes the paper bag. “Deal.”

Misha goes to the fridge to pull out two beers. They’re El Sol; he even drinks the same beer Dean does. “Go on. Open it.”

Obediently, Sam opens the bag and reaches in to pull out a large fuchsia and orange… sweater. It’s a sweater with a… “Is that a moose?”

Misha scowls as he hands him a bottle. “A reindeer, Sam. It’s a _reindeer._ Moose antlers don’t look like that.”

“Uh. Oops?” Sam tries sheepishly as he takes the beer.

The scowl fades. “I hope it fits. I made it a little bigger than your shirts, but it’ll probably shrink in the dryer, so I hope it’ll still fit after a couple of washes.”

The alternating fuchsia and orange yarn is a somewhat garish combination, and he still thinks the brown reindeer looks like a moose, but it’s the sweetest gift Sam’s ever received, and the thought of Misha secretly knitting it whenever he wasn’t around has him pulling his roommate in for a hug. The other stiffens momentarily, then returns the hug warmly.

“Thanks, Mish. It’s the best present anyone’s ever given me.”

“I—I’m glad.”

“Happy Thanksgiving to you, too.”

~*~

For Misha, Thanksgiving week is spent going on morning runs with Sam (which is not too different from life at Stanford), cooking or discreetly salvaging either lunch or dinner (Sam is a disaster in the kitchen when it comes to anything but the cutting board, and he'd eat it, but Sam would feel terrible), cleaning the apartment (which is easier with Sam) and jerking off in the shower (which is harder when the object of his fantasies is outside the door waiting for his turn).

His father came the day after Thanksgiving proper. They finished the rest of the turkey with turkey noodle soup made from the bones and a salad with homemade honey mustard, then spent the evening singing old songs as his father played the guitar. Sam keeps trying to write his paper on the role of education in the pursuit of justice. Misha keeps trying to get him to do fun things because they’re on vacation.

They play Scrabble, and Sam beats him soundly two thirds of the time. Since it’s Sam’s first time in Boston, they do touristy things like the Freedom Trail, Union Oyster House, several museums and the Swan Boat on the lake in the Public Garden. They watch Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, which doesn’t live up to the book, of course, but that doesn’t stop them from being absurdly happy about the movie. Sam finds the basilisk really cool and still thinks the casting is great — everyone looks a lot like how he imagined them. Misha can’t get over Hamlet being Gilderoy Lockhart, and if the entirety of Harry Potter were rendered in a Shakespearean play, he’d be the first in line to watch it if he couldn’t act in it himself. He also wants to hug Dumbledore and Hagrid. They got a ton of popcorn, and Sam let him pick the flavors, so half was covered in caramel and apple cinnamon while the other half had white cheddar and parmesan garlic. By the end of the movie, he was surprised they’d almost finished it. Then again, Sam must have grown to that height somehow. Sam has also won even more points in his book for loving many of the same things in the series —heck, Sam’s even fond of Moaning Myrtle— and Misha really needs Sam to be a little less perfect. 

Sam is waiting outside when he exits the restroom, so he sneaks up behind him and grasps his shoulders. “Hey~”

Quick as lightning, Sam drops and flips him overhead, lets out a surprised shout, and catches him by the waist before he hits the ground. “Jesus Christ, Mish!” he swears, setting Misha down and backing away. “I could have killed you.”

“W—wow.” That is the least of Misha’s immediate concerns, the primary of which is how much he wants Sam to do that all over again. “You are so definitely a spy,” he says, looking over his shoulder with a grin because he can’t turn around. “But you wouldn’t though.” It’s a little uncomfortable, but he makes himself walk to his car and wills his hormones to calm down. The cold air helps, and by the time Sam climbs in beside him with a scowl, he’s fine, bar a few extra fantasies of being manhandled.

“That’s not the point, Mish.” Sam runs his hand through his hair. “Please don’t do that again.”

Well, he won’t, but not for the reason Sam’s warning him. He flips on the music, and Sam looks at the iPod jack with a bemused expression as they drive home, as if there’s something distinctly incongruous about driving around Boston to Peaches and Goldfrapp.

“What?” he asks with a sideways glance when they stop at a traffic light.

Sam grins. “Just marveling at how your taste in music manages to be so different from Dean’s, and yet not any better.”

“Hmph.” There, he’s found one minus point, finally. “Too bad~ It’s my car.”

He turns up the volume, but Sam only chuckles. “Seriously? I’ve been stuck in cars listening to music I don’t care for longer than you’ve had a car, Mish. Dean always says driver picks the music, and shotgun shuts his cakehole.”

“Your brother has the right idea.”

“Yeah. But he likes most of Dad’s music anyway, so he never had a problem with that policy.”

“You clearly need to rethink your musical tastes.”

Sam snorts. “Or you guys do.”

By now, they’ve reached home, so Misha parks and climbs out. “What’s not to like about Peaches and Goldfrapp?”

“Nothing,” Sam replies, joining him outside and slinging an arm around his shoulders. “For you.”

Misha sticks his tongue out at Sam as he unlocks the door and steps inside. His mother’s home, so he runs over to give her a hug in the kitchen. “Momma! How was work?”

“Mostly business as usual, but remember the guy I was telling you about that keeps trying to hit on me?” Her eyes twinkle, and they look just like Misha’s.

“Yes! What did he do today?”

“So he was trying to get my attention as usual, and then as he was walking, he slipped on something and fell backward, right into someone’s cart?”

Sam snorts, but manages not to burst out laughing hysterically. Rebecca is just barely reining in her laughter, though, and Misha is abuzz with excitement.

“Oh. My. God.”

“Wait, wait. Anyway, he got stuck, so a couple of guys had to help get him out of there, right? But as they were pulling,” she cracks up, “they ended up pulling his pants down!” There are tears in her eyes, and she has to take a deep breath between giggles to stifle her laughter long enough to finish with “And he had these bright pink Hello Kitty boxers on?”

Misha howls with laughter, falling back against Sam, who musses his hair.

“Which were actually kinda cute, but—”

“Well, I don’t think he’ll be back any time soon after that,” Misha concludes as he calms down. “Which means some peace for you.” He wraps an arm around his mother. “Poor guy, though.”

“What did you boys do?”

“We went to catch the new Harry Potter movie.”

“Without me?” Rebecca gasps in mock horror.

“Ta-da! My excuse to re-watch it!” Misha sings with a twirl between them. “And I still think Sam is a spy.”

“I still think your son has no sense of self-preservation.”

Misha smacks Sam on the shoulder. “Do too! I just didn’t expect you to do that!”

Rebecca turns to her son. “Do what?”

“He flipped me over his head and caught me like a princess~”

Sam snorts. “I nearly threw you halfway across the street. Would have if you hadn’t yelped. Silly Mish.”

Rebecca wraps her arms around Misha protectively. “No throwing my Quiche around.”

Misha beams sunnily, and Sam can’t help feeling a little envious. If only his family were more like this. He feels so much more at home here than he did all those years growing up with his own.

“Oh, I need eggs and cream for dinner, but we’re all out. Be a dear and run down to the store across the street, a—”

“I’ll go,” Sam offers before she can finish.

“Oh, I’ll go with you,” Misha says, disentangling himself from his mother’s arms.

“Nah, you should stay and help with dinner, since we both know I’m no good at that.”

Misha has the good graces to blush at having been discovered salvaging meals Sam tried to cook, as Sam grabs his keys and heads out the door with a sheepish grin.

“What a nice young man,” Rebecca remarks, not for the first time that week, as she puts the Dutch oven on the stove.

“Isn’t he?” Misha turns to start setting the table. “Best roommate ever.”

Rebecca tosses in several slices of bacon. “Well, here I am waiting for you to finally bring Vicki home, and instead you bring this gorgeous hunk of a sweetheart back here. Warn a mom, now, wouldja?”

Misha pauses momentarily as he sets the cutlery down. “What?” He smiles wistfully to himself. “It’s nothing like that.”

“But you want it to be?’ The bacon sizzles, and she turns them over. “I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

Misha laughs. “Sam’s straight as an arrow, Momma.”

Rebecca takes the bacon out of the pot before coming over to kiss him on the temple. “My poor baby. You’ve asked?”

“No, I’ve seen. He’s only ever checked out the ladies.”

“Maybe you just haven’t seen him checking out the boys.” She moves away to put the onion into the pot.

“Nope, even drunk, only girls.” Or what looks like one, but Misha doesn’t want to think about that. He hadn’t needed all those things to be true until Sam said them, hadn’t needed Sam until he had him. As before, he’ll get by just fine without him. “Not getting my hopes up.” He skips over to the sink to drain the vegetables soaking there. “Ooh, we’re having kale!”

“Of course, dear. I know it’s your favorite.” He adds the kale to the pot, and she stirs it a bit before covering it. “Well, you’ll always have me,” she adds, squeezing him to her in a hug by the waist.

He leans in to rest his head on her shoulder. “I know, Momma, I know.”

~*~

Misha sighs. Christmas is coming, and he wants to invite Sam home again, but he doesn’t know if he can take a longer round of Thanksgiving break — many, many more days of his mother watching him moon over his off-limits best friend. As it is, he doesn’t know how he’s going to last the rest of the year sharing a room with Sam. He’d try the “getting over someone by getting under someone else” trick if he could even _look_ at someone attractive without wishing it were Sam, but it really doesn’t work that way. He sighs again.

Vicki pokes his cheek over the table. “Hey. What’s with you? You’ve been moping all day.”

He pouts at her and takes another bite of his salad. “Have not. It’s lunch, Vicki. That’s scarcely half the day.”

She snaps a finger at his wrist. “Not the point. C’mon, Mish, what’s wrong?”

He sighs for the third time and decides to start from the beginning. “I think I’m in love with Sam.”

“You think?”

He glares at her, then deflates. “It’s that obvious?”

She rolls her eyes, eating another spoonful of pasta. “He’s all you’ve talked about since you moved in together. Yeah, it’s pretty obvious. I think we’ve _all_ noticed. Heck, I can’t believe he hasn’t.”

“Y—yeah. My mother noticed over Thanksgiving, too.” He pokes dejectedly at his lunch.

“What I want to know is why you haven’t told him.”

“He likes women, Vick. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t qualify.”

“Prefers,” she corrects, waving her fork sternly. “And you don’t even know that. Besides, if he’d switch teams for anyone, I daresay it’s you.”

He stabs at a pepper. “Don’t get my hopes up.”

“I’m not. Seriously, Mish, just tell him. If he says no, you’ll know for sure, and you can move on. For fuck’s sake, he thinks the world of you. I highly doubt it’d put that much of a dent in your friendship if it doesn’t work out like you want it. Sure, it’ll be awkward for a while, but he’s not going to up and leave just because you had a phase.”

“It’s not a—”

“I know. But he doesn’t have to.” She tilts her head pointedly.

All right, fine. When he gets back, he’s going to t— No, he’s going to tell him about what really happened the night of the party, drop it casually like “Yeah, we made out, and it was kinda nice, actually” just to test the waters, see how Sam reacts. And if he doesn’t freak out, maybe ask if he’d do it again, if he’d be opposed to “more than friends.” Yes, that sounds like a safer plan. That way, if Sam does freak out, he can pass it off as a joke or a drunken mishap. He spends the rest of the day planning out the conversation in his head, preparing for any eventuality, and when he finally makes it back to his room, he’s relieved to find that Sam’s already there.

“Hey,” he greets, closing the door behind him and setting his bag down by his desk.

“Oh my God, Misha, get this,” Sam gushes, too excited to even stand still. “Remember that party we went to on Halloween night?”

“Y—yes, of course.” He definitely wasn’t expecting Sam to bring up the party first. Sam doesn’t even like Halloween.

“So while we were there, I met this girl. Her name’s Jess, and she’s gorgeous and really cool, and we ran into each other again today, and she just asked me out?”

And Sam’s obviously waiting for his reaction, but it feels like his stomach just dropped out, and it takes probably far too many seconds for him to recover enough to force a smile and manage “Th—That’s great.”

“I know! So we’re grabbing coffee this Saturday at three, and if that goes well, we’ll probably meet for dinner and a movie next week. I can’t wait for you to meet her, Mish. I think you’ll like her. She’s a—”

Fuck, his eyes are stinging. He turns away and grabs his things. “Amazing, I bet. Listen, I really need a shower, so hold that thought, and you can tell me all about her when I get out.”

“Oh. Sure. Yeah. I’ll probably have to leave for work soon though.”

Yes. That’s exactly the plan. “Well, uh… tomorrow then. I’m sure you’ll think of even more things to tell me by then.”

With that, he all but runs out of the room before Sam can reply, and by the time he reaches the communal showers and locks the door to a stall behind him, he feels like a pathetic jerk. He leans against the door and wipes his eyes.

Sam’s happy.

He should be happy for his best friend. And he is. He really is. It’s just…

He really needs to stop crying in the shower.


	2. Crazy Little Thing

“Misha.”

Before he can turn at the sound of his name, the bed creaks as someone climbs up, and a warm body settles in next to him. He tenses.

“Sam?” he whispers.

“Misha,” Sam says again, more quietly this time, and then long arms are wrapping around him, soft lips trailing kisses down the back of his neck, and pulling him flush to his roommate’s well-toned body.

Sam’s hard.

Sam’s hard and rocking into the crack of his ass, and fuck, Misha needs it inside him so badly — he whimpers a little, already half-hard from this mere hint of intent, and when Sam’s hand —God, it’s big enough to hold almost all of him at once— slips into his pajama pants to wrap around his cock, he has to bury his face in his pillow to muffle his cry as his hips jerk involuntarily. Sam nibbles on the shell of his ear and breathes “Love you, Mish; fuck, so beautiful, so good to me” before sucking on an earlobe as the slight calluses on long fingers drag sparks of pleasure over Misha’s sensitive flesh. He’s keening desperately into the pillow, flushed with desire, wet with precum slicking the way for those practiced fingers to glide lightly over his balls, and he nearly comes — they’re so sensitive when he’s aroused.

“Please,” he gasps, begging. For what, he doesn’t even know anymore — he’s so close. “Please.”

And then, Sam is turning him and kissing him deeply as he thumbs his way up the underside of Misha’s cock to the tip, and _fuck._

White-hot pleasure sears through him as he comes all over Sam’s hand—

—that isn’t there.

He’s panting, gasping for breath alone in his bed, and he’s never come so hard in his life, but it’s just a dream, and he’ll never really have his roommate—

Shit.

He quickly twists around and raises himself on his arms to check.

Oh, thank heavens; he’s alone in the room.

Flopping back gracelessly in relief, he checks his cell phone for the time. It’s one in the morning. Sam’s probably still out with Jess. He sighs.

By the time Misha admitted to Vicki that he never got around to “confessing” to Sam, his roommate had already gone on a very enjoyable coffee date with Jess. Coffee led to dinner and then the movies, and by the end of the year, Sam was crashing her family home in San Francisco while working a few seasonal jobs for the holidays. And if Misha wasn’t depressed from just hearing about how wonderful Jess is, he certainly was when he returned to their room one day to find a lovely blonde sitting beside Sam on the bed. He had probably seemed pretty dazed through the introductions.

Jess would have made a great Agent 13.

Misha can’t decide which idea is more crushing — that Sam doesn’t remember what happened, or that Sam merely mistook him for Jessica Moore that night. Either way, he’s already cried in the shower three times over the entire affair —not including the time he ran to Vicki’s to avoid Sam and Jess hanging out in the room, called his mother and ended up breaking down in tears all over again when she asked about his “gorgeous hunk of a sweetheart”— and he’s decided he’s done. It’s time to move on. Jess is good for Sam. She's a nice girl — she bakes great cookies, joins them for runs in the morning, and is always upbeat, sincere and attentive. Heck, she even likes the sweater he knitted for Sam, who actually wears it around. No one wears the sweaters he knits to anything but Ugly Sweater parties. No one. Not even Vicki. No one but Sam, apparently. And Jess thinks it’s cute. He sighs. He and Sam have been the best of friends for months. How hard could it be to just go back to that?

Only it really, really is, and as sexually attracted as Misha suddenly finds himself to Sam, it’s not the lack of physical intimacy that gets to him — it’s the ugly twist of jealousy he feels whenever he sees Sam with Jess, and they do something to make each other smile or laugh like the world is the most beautiful place imaginable. He would never want anything but happiness for Sam, never wish Jess anything but well, but he can’t help wishing it were him instead of her that could make Sam so happy, that could make them both feel so at home. So he runs. Because the ugliness eats him up inside, and he doesn’t want to feel that way, doesn’t want to be that person.

He contemplates taking a shower, but ends up wiping himself down at the sink instead and tossing both the washcloth and his soiled pants into his laundry hamper, because if he showers now, he won't be able to sleep for another couple of hours at least, and he has a long day ahead. He's pulling on a clean pair of shorts when Sam walks in the door, beaming like sunshine and smelling of popcorn and lilies — late night movie with Jess, then.

“Hey,” Sam greets, coming over to ruffle his hair lightly like it's the most natural thing in the world. “What are you doing up? Don't you have five hours of rehearsal after class tomorrow?”

Misha is leaning into the touch before he can stop himself and almost forgets to answer. “Hm? Yeah, I was just about to go to sleep.”

“Think you have time for lunch or dinner tomorrow? I feel like we haven't really hung out in a while,” Sam adds ruefully as he sits down and starts changing, obviously oblivious to how Misha has been avoiding him of late.

“Yeah, you've been busy with Jess,” Misha agrees automatically and regrets it. It's a fact, but it came out with more snark than he'd intended, and now it just sounds like a barb at either Jess or Sam's relationship with her. Oh boy.

Sam's face falls. “I'm sorry it seems that way. It's just... we've both been so busy. I don't see you anymore, even when I'm not with Jess, and I miss you, Mish. I love spending time with you. That hasn't changed. You're still my best friend.”

The words cut so deep, even as they make Misha smile, and he doesn't even know how that can be possible. “Well, you don't work on Sundays anymore, right?”

“Yeah. Different shifts this quarter. Jess does though. To her chagrin.”

Which is precisely the point. “So does Vicki. Want to come volunteer at the soup kitchen with me?”

Sam lights up, his eyes twinkling. “Of course, Mish. I'd love to!” Then he frowns. “Does that mean no on lunch or dinner tomorrow, though?”

And Misha knows he's way too far gone on Sam when the hope in his roommate's eyes immediately has him making time. “Lunch. Half past one, most likely. I'll call you.”

But that's all right. Because it makes Sam smile just the way he does with Jess, and that's worth it. In this moment, it's all for him, and he covets nothing. Sam leaps to his feet in his excitement.

“Great! Then I'll see you tomorrow.”

As Sam heads for the sink, he stops to hug Misha and whisper, “Good night,” and it takes all of Misha's effort not to cling on tightly and never let go. These are his: the hair ruffling, the twinkle in olive eyes, the little things about Sam that only he knows — like the Jason Bourne skills. He sighs again as he climbs back up into his bed.

If only he could be happy with just that.

~*~

It’s night, and the city seems at once familiar, yet foreign. He’s walking briskly, and the clack of heels on the asphalt sounds overly loud. He gets that prickly feeling on the back of his head again. It feels like he’s being watched. Or followed. Sam turns, but there’s nothing. Still, he grips his bag more tightly as he walks on, picking up the pace. Home. If he can get home…

Something growls behind him, and he turns.

It’s a large dog, wolf-like, fallow brindle with a black mask. He’s not usually afraid of dogs, but this one is different. It looks wild, feral, drooling and poised to attack, and very clearly interested in him.

He runs. It’s not far. It’s not far, and behind him, he hears the dog start running in pursuit. He can make it. It’s just round the corner, a—

“Agh!”

The air is knocked from his lungs when the dog pounces, barreling into his back, and he braces his arms as he falls, dropping his bag. The wooden bangle bruises his wrist as he hits the ground, but the asphalt scraping his skin is worse. He doesn’t get much chance to think about that before pain lances through his neck, and he arches up with a shout.

It’s dark. He can’t see a thing, and the pain is gone. Is this— is he..?

“Sam?”

Misha.

Relief floods through him at the lingering scent of nag champa incense. This is their room. It’s just another nightmare.

He buries his face in his hands, trying to slow his heart rate and breathing. Off to the side, he hears Misha land softly on his bare feet. The desk lamp flickers on, flooding the room with its weak yellow light, and then his best friend is beside him, a grounding hand on his shoulder.

“Hey. Sam, you okay?”

He nods, turning to smile wryly at his roommate. “Sorry I woke you.”

Misha shakes his head, sitting down beside him on the bed. “The alarm goes off in an hour anyway. Bad nightmare?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I—” He stiffens as memory comes rushing back, his blood running cold.

He’s seen that wooden bangle before. There’s only one of it in the world.

Misha carved it himself for his mother’s birthday five years ago, and Rebecca’s never removed it since.

“Sam?”

He wraps an arm around his best friend’s waist and leans on Misha. _It’s just a nightmare,_ he tells himself, firmly, _just a nightmare, is all._ “I dreamed that… that I was attacked by a gigantic wild dog.” He can’t bring himself to acknowledge his realization.

Misha cards fingers through his hair soothingly. “Well, I’m sure a dog big enough to overpower you doesn’t exist, so I wouldn’t worry about that,” he offers with a chuckle.

Sam shakes his head, but says nothing. _Oh, if only you knew._

~*~

When Misha arrives at the soup kitchen with Sam on Sunday morning, he’s informed that they’re shorthanded because two of the regular volunteers couldn’t make it that day, so it’s just as well that Sam came along. Danielle and Jasper are serving, Erin is helping Suraya cook in the back, and the entire place is a mess, because no one’s found a spare moment to clean since they started up. Sam immediately volunteers to clean, since he’s “no good with cooking,” and Misha still feels guilty for impressing the idea upon him by not being subtle enough over Thanksgiving. Still, he heads into the kitchen to take over from Erin, and she’s so relieved to be out of the kitchen’s sweltering heat that she all but runs out to help Sam. Within two hours, everything’s back under control, and it’s like they were never understaffed at all.

Around noon, he hears some commotion outside and peeks out the kitchen door to find Sam standing between a brutish man and a petite woman in line. It’s Gus. Again. Ever foul-tempered, he’s been banned for harassing and starting fights with the other customers many times before. He’s even hit Jasper once, when Jasper enforced the ban and refused to let him in. Even as he watches, Gus takes a swipe at Sam, who leans back to evade it. Jasper walks over to help break up the fight, but then Gus throws another punch, and Sam catches his arm to flip him over, effectively throwing him halfway out the door.

“One month, Gus!” Jasper tells Gus loudly, so everyone can hear. “You’re banned for a month! And if you keep pulling stuff like this, you’re never coming back!”

Gus looks ready to protest, but Sam angles his body in front of Jasper, and Gus beats a hasty retreat. Jasper’s had to restrain Gus before, but he has nothing on Sam’s 6’4” stature or ninja fighting skills.

“Wow.” Danielle whistles appreciatively beside him. “That was pretty badass.”

Misha grins proudly. “Yeah, I’m still convinced he’s a ninja. Or a secret agent. No matter what he says.”

“Hot too.” She sighs as the woman thanks Sam profusely. “Why are all the great guys gay?”

He scowls. “Hey. I’m not. And neither is Sam.”

She blinks, looking from him to Sam and back. “You mean you two aren’t…?”

“I wish,” he wants to say, but Sam and Jasper are chatting companionably on their way back to where he and Danielle are standing, so instead, he says, “Nope. You’re still out of luck though. His girlfriend’s pretty awesome too.”

She snorts. “Of course. Can’t go without completing the saying, can we?”

“Hey,” he protests again. “Am I so terrible, now?”

Danielle laughs. “No. But then, you’re not interested either, are you?”

“Nope,” he agrees, and she swats him on the shoulder, returning to work just as Sam walks over.

“Hey now. Slacking off already?” the sasquatch greets him good-naturedly, like he hadn’t just tossed a grown man out the door.

“Hmph.” Misha fends off an attempt to muss his hair. “Just you try standing back there for a few hours. See if you need a breather. It’s like a hundred degrees by the stove.”

“I was just telling Sam here he needs to come play bouncer more often,” Jasper chimes in.

He and Suraya set this soup kitchen up, and they are the only two permanent staff here. A successful businessman, Jasper earns more than enough to support his family from the rental he collects on his properties, so he and Suraya spend their time here instead of working. He never forgot what it was like growing up on less than a dollar’s worth of food per day sometimes, and the very religious Suraya believes that charity paves the pathway to Paradise.

Misha can relate to Jasper; it’s the same reason he comes here every Sunday instead of working. He wouldn’t be here without people like Jasper and Suraya, and in whatever small way he can, he hopes that he can help someone else through life too. Sam smiles, and Misha longs to fit his lips into those dimples.

“I’d love to,” his roommate agrees easily. “I mean, I have work and class most of the week, of course, but I’ll at least come every Sunday with Misha.”

And once again, Misha finds himself thinking that Sam really needs to stop being so fucking perfect. At this rate, he’s never going to get over him.

~*~

“Hey, baby~”

Long fingers slide into Sam’s hair and rub a few circles into his scalp. He looks up from his book with a smile, shutting it. “Jess!” He’s been waiting in this café for her to finish her shift at the pharmacy next door. Truth is he’s not too fond of the place — their specialty is pie. “You want to eat here, or should we head someplace else?”

“Well, I had lunch here, so I was thinking we’d just grab dinner at FloMo on the way up to my room.”

He tucks his book back inside his sling bag. “Sounds good to me.”

“Great. I knew there was a reason I love you, Sam.”

She holds out her hand, and he takes it, rising to exit the café with her. They hold hands all the way back to FloMo, chatting intermittently about their respective days, and it’s nice. Being with Jess puts him at ease. She’s fun to be with, even when they’re just sitting around studying, and she always knows just what to do to make his day better.

They find a table and take turns getting food, and he’s halfway through his roasted potato salad when Jess asks, “So how was your weekend?”

“Well, you know I volunteer with Misha at JS Soup Kitchen every Sunday now, right?”

She nods around a spoonful of curry vegetable soup.

“So get this. Remember the guy I told you I threw out on my first day? Well, he came back the week before last, and it was fine, you know? Jasper said he hadn’t acted up all week too, but then last Sunday, Gus came in obviously drunk.” He runs a hand through his hair. “One minute he was moping in line; the next, he was beating another guy up, and one of the other guys in line fought him off. Jasper and I had to break them up as Misha went to check on the guy he hit first. Gus struggled against my hold on him though, tried to lunge for the first guy again, but ended up kicking Misha in the ribs instead,” and if Sam stabs his fork into his harissa chicken a little more viciously than strictly necessary, Jess doesn’t remark on it. “And oh God, I was so mad, I slammed him to the floor and knocked him out.”

“Wow. Remind me never to piss you off, Sam,” she says with a chuckle, only half-joking, and squeezes his hand as she takes another bite of her eggplant parmesan. “I think that guy needs help, though. Or at the very least, he needs to be somewhere he can’t hurt anyone else. We don’t even know how many people he’s beaten up and harassed outside JS.”

“Yeah.” He smiles wryly. “We called the cops this time. Spent an hour or so taking turns talking to them. Misha, though. I’m pretty sure his ribs were bruised quite badly, but he refused to leave early because we’re understaffed again.”

“Aww…” Jess presses her hand to her chest. “He’s such a sweetheart, isn’t he?”

Sam smiles fondly. “That he is.”

“It’s a pity people don’t stick around. It’s a good cause.” She frowns. “If I weren’t already volunteering at Arbor, I’d help.”

“Hey, healthcare is important too, especially with how expensive it’s getting.” 

They finish their food and make their way up to Jess and Lindsay’s room. “Oh, speaking of Misha, you know Vicki snagged his car keys when he crashed at her room last week?” Sam grins. “Apparently, her group was studying llamas for her behavioral ecology elective, and they wanted a pair. Misha, of course, refused to let her put llamas in his car, so she had to wait till he fell asleep to sneak out with his car keys.”

“Oh my God, let me guess.” Jess turns. “They spit or shed all over his car?”

“Worse,” he chuckles. “They shat.”

She snorts, joining him in laughter. “No way. You’re kidding.”

He shakes his head, still laughing too hard to reply, and takes a deep breath to try stifling it. “We spent most of last Friday night cleaning llama feces out of his car, and he was utterly miserable about it.”

Jess nods in sympathy. “Who wouldn’t be? I don’t reckon anyone would like to clean any kind of poop out of their car.”

“That, and he and his mom were once taken in by people who ran a llama farm when they were homeless, and he kept trying to help out because he wanted to earn his keep, so working with llamas reminds him of being homeless as a kid.”

“Oh, man.” She scratches her head with one hand as she unlocks her door with the other.

“I don’t think Vicki ever imagined they’d poop in the car. She felt so bad about the entire ordeal.”

Lindsay’s not in of course; she rarely is.

“Anyway, enough about me.” Sam sits down on Jess’s bed and pulls her close with an arm around her waist. “How was _your_ weekend?”

“Well,” she loops her arms loosely around his neck, “I spent most of the weekend at the pharmacy frustrated by my colleague, Jenna.” Half sitting on his lap, she continues, “We were filling prescriptions, and she would pass me bottles of medication to sort into bags for the customers. Now, I keep telling her to fill them one-by-one, but no, she’ll look at the list and fill every bottle of the same type at once, and that would be fine if she doesn’t get mixed up and end up writing the wrong name on the labels.”

“Uh. Isn’t that dangerous?” Sam runs his fingers through her blond waves.

“Tell me about it! Luckily, I find out when I crosscheck the prescriptions to make sure they’re complete. And we have to put new labels on, which is a total waste, but Jenna just won’t listen.”

“Aren’t we glad you’re there?” He hugs her to him tightly.

“Mm,” she agrees, straddling his lap to accommodate and burying her hands in his hair as they kiss.

He slides his hands up her back, rubbing at tense muscles, and she sighs contentedly, rubbing circles down his scalp to his neck and shifting in closer. She smells good, the lingering perfume of lilies sweetening her natural scent. He trails kisses up her jaw and down her neck, and she tilts her head back, pulling him to lie on the bed with her. She’s so beautiful, looking up at him with such affection, her hair framing her face like a halo, so… _pure_.

Jess pulls him back down to her, starts undoing the buttons on his shirt, and… it feels inappropriate. Like they’re moving too fast. Heck, he’s even met her parents, and who does that so soon? He doesn’t want to ruin this, but he doesn’t know how to stop without hurting her feelings.

Just then, the door opens.

“You will not beli— Oh.” It’s Lindsay, dressed to the nines and halfway through removing heels that could stab a man.

He hurriedly pulls away and fixes his clothes.

“Oh my God. I’m s—”

“No, no, you’re fine,” he interrupts quickly, seizing his excuse to make for the door. “It’s your room, after all.”

There’s a faint blush to Jess’s cheeks, but she only sits up languidly and says, “I thought you had a date tonight.”

Lindsay’s lips quirk in annoyance. “I did. And I was already waiting at the restaurant when he called to cancel on me because _he needs to finish his paper that’s due tomorrow._ Talk about lame.”

“Well, isn’t it good that he’s got his priorities straight?”

Sam’s glad Jess is in that camp, but still, “He could have called earlier though. Or written that paper earlier.”

Lindsay snaps her fingers. “Exactly. Thank you, Sam. Jess, this one’s a keeper. Sorry I interrupted.”

“No, no, no,” he reassures her, retreating quickly out the door. “I was just leaving. Jess, I’ll see you on Friday?”

Jess smiles, a little rueful. “Yeah. Good night, babe.”

He shuts the door and heads back, feeling a little guilty. But maybe it’s better this way. Jess is amazing. Sometimes, he can’t even wrap his head around what she sees in him. Maybe that’s the problem — deep down, he still thinks he’s a freak. He really needs to get over this. Dean would have gone for it.

He squares his shoulders, lips thinning, at the thought.

Dean would also leave town the next day.

He sighs, letting himself back in his room. Misha isn’t in, much to his disappointment — probably at rehearsal. Sam stretches, feeling his joints pop, and sits down at his desk. Time to start studying for that midterm.

~*~

Misha has barely stepped into the room when his phone rings. He sets his things down quickly and answers it. It’s Sam.

“Hey, Mish, are you back in the room right now?” He sounds hopeful, bordering on desperate.

“Yes, I just got back, actually. What’s up?”

“Oh. Oh great. Um. Could you do me a favor? Please?” Definitely closer to desperate.

Misha grins. “Depends on what it is.”

“On my desk, do you see a paper on discrimination in the education system?”

He heads over to Sam’s desk, and it’s neatly in a folder, right in plain sight where he usually sets his laptop; the cover page reads exactly that, too. “Yes, it’s right in front of me.” He picks it up and heads out the door.

“Oh, thank God,” Sam breathes in relief. “I was so scared I’d dropped it somewhere. So, uh… it’s due at the start of class in fifteen minutes, but if I head back to get it, I’ll never make it to class on time. Is there any way I could convince you to bring it to Hewlett for me?”

His grin turns a little wistful. “What wouldn’t I do for you, Sam? I’m on my way.”

“Oh God. Thank you, Mish. Thank you so much! I really owe you one. It’s worth about a third of my grade.”

He laughs at the sheepish tone and the sheer gratitude in his roommate’s voice. “Don’t be silly. Thanks to you, I’ve got a pair of briefs signed by Candis Cayne, and I can still feel the marker’s imprints on my ass. You don’t owe me anything.”

Sam chuckles. “Let me at least buy you the next issue of Captain America.”

“God, I fucking love you.”

The words were out before he even realized he’d thought them, but he doubts Sam will take them seriously.

Indeed, Sam just plays along with “I know, I know. Right about now, I’d say the feeling is mutual,” laughing, and Misha has to silence a sigh.

He can’t continue this conversation right now.

“Okay. I’ll see you there,” he says, hanging up and pocketing his phone.

Time hasn’t made this easier. Meeting new people hasn’t changed a thing. Sometimes, he’ll manage to distract himself with work and not think about this for days, and then one day, he’ll run into Sam walking out of the shower with only a towel around his waist, long hair dripping rivulets of water onto that well-toned, muscular body, and now he can’t forget he’s seen it, can’t help thinking about how fucking gorgeous Sam is under those hoodies and jeans. He’d never really thought about it before; even though he knows Sam is attractive, that’s not why he loves him. But that time, he’d had to dash into a stall to hide, and that image, even now, is all it takes to have him jerking off on his fucking knees in the shower, because all he can think about is how desperately he wants to map that perfect body with his mouth. He shakes his head to clear it as he jogs towards Hewlett Teaching Center.

It was bad enough wallowing in his unrequited love without adding to his growing sexual frustration.

When he arrives, Sam is waiting anxiously outside, and runs over as soon as he spots him.

“Mish!” Sam throws his arms around Misha in a tight hug. He’s never been so grateful to see his roommate. Happy always, but never quite this grateful. “Thank you so much! You’re a lifesaver.” He lets go and takes the paper, feeling terrible for making Misha run all this way just to deliver a paper he should never have been careless enough to leave behind, but “I have three minutes,” he realizes with a rueful grin as he checks his watch. And because his options are limited, he sheepishly asks, “Want to come up with me?”

He’s inexplicably glad when Misha agrees with a smile. They used to spend more time together, just hanging out or talking, and even then it wasn’t that much, because they were both so busy. Nowadays, even though he sees Misha for morning runs and volunteer work on Sundays, it feels like they don’t really talk anymore. He’s about to ask Misha how the week has been when the other’s phone rings. Misha picks it up as they head up the stairs.

“Hello?” A pause. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

Abruptly, Misha stops dead in his tracks.

The phone slips from his fingers, and Sam scrambles to catch it before it hits the floor. “Misha?” Misha doesn’t answer, just sinks to sit on the steps, so he lifts the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“Who are you?” the lady asks.

“I’m his best friend,” Sam replies, annoyed. “What did you tell him?”

“Oh. Listen, could you see that he gets back to Boston? I’m calling from the Boston Police Department, and… there’s no easy way to say this, I’m sorry. We need him to identify a body.”

Sam feels his blood run cold. No. _NO._

“We believe it may be Rebecca Tippens.”

~*~

Sam turned in his paper, but didn’t stay for class. Instead, he led Misha back to their room with an arm around his shoulders and packed for them both. It’s a two-day drive to Boston if they don’t stop, nothing he hasn’t done before, and Misha is in no condition to be driving. It isn’t even until they’re in the car a couple of hours later that Misha snaps out of his stupor, picks up his phone and starts calling.

And calling.

And _calling._

And Sam doesn’t know how to tell him that the cops are not wrong too often. That when they are, it’s the kind of thing you call the Winchesters in for, and that’s worse. Misha tries for an hour, then drops the phone in his lap.

“Sam.”

Without a thought, Sam pulls up by the side of the highway and turns.

“She’s not picking up.”

That quiet voice cracks, and he pulls Misha into his arms because he doesn’t know what else he can do, just holds him tight as sobs rack his body. This isn’t right. Misha should never have to feel so much pain. But there’s nothing he can do to make this better, so he just runs his hands up and down Misha’s back in an attempt to soothe him, and when his best friend finally passes out in exhaustion, he lays him out on the back seat and buckles back up for a long drive.

~*~

When they finally arrive in Boston, Misha insists on heading home first, so they do. They set their things in Misha’s room and try to ignore the obvious signs that no one has been home in days. He lets Misha put it off —“I’m hungry. There’s this organic café I’ve been wanting to try,” “Didn’t you want to see this when you came to visit?”— because he can see how desperately Misha is trying to pretend nothing’s happened, and it’s evening by the time they finally arrive at the station.

Sam doesn’t know which of them is more distraught to see the body — Misha, to find it really is Rebecca, or him, to hear the cause of death. Mauled by what looks like a wolf, only there are no wolves in Boston, so the prevailing theory is a particularly savage wild dog, and they’ve warned the public to be careful. She was attacked from behind, and her heart is missing, and the lacerations on her arms down to the scratched and bloodstained bangle — they all match up exactly to his dream, and he can feel the strength leaving his knees and the bile rising in his throat.

_Not a dream. It’s not a dream. And that's no dog._

But then Misha staggers back, and he moves forward instinctively to catch him, to wrap his arms around his best friend tightly, because Misha is shaking as he nods to confirm that it’s her. It’s her. It’s his mother lying in tatters on that surgical table, and he turns Misha around so his face is buried in Sam’s chest, because Misha should never have had to see that — _no one_ should have to see that— and he hates them for making him, hates that niggling voice inside that whispers that he could have tried, should have at least checked, because how could he ever tell Misha he saw it coming and thought it was just a dream?

They do what they must, then he drives Misha home, because he can see how close his best friend is to simply shutting down. He can deal with his guilt later — all that matters now is Misha. He unlocks the door and steps into the empty apartment, imagines he can see the essence of Misha and Rebecca’s memories enmeshed in the very fibers of every drape and handmade piece of furniture, knows there isn’t a single corner in the place that wouldn’t remind Misha of his mother. In time, it will be cherished; now, perhaps, it is too painful.

He turns to find Misha frozen at the threshold, staring blankly in, and he walks back to his side, concerned. He takes the smaller man gently by the shoulders. “Misha?” he calls softly, and blue eyes snap up to focus on him. He can’t discern the flurry of emotions that flash by in them, but then Misha just leans forward to rest his forehead on Sam’s shoulder.

“I’ll need to arrange storage for everything here, too,” he sighs, pulling away to walk past Sam into his home. “Momma paid the rent on this place,” he continues, looking around. “I can’t afford it on top of everything else, and I’ll be at Stanford most of the time.” He picks up the slightly lumpy orange cushion on the couch and smiles sadly as Sam locks the door. “This is the first permanent home we’ve had since the last place we lived in burned down while I was in high school. Mister Higgins let us rent it for a song, so we’ve been able to consistently afford the place.” He sits down and hugs the cushion to him. “This is the first cushion she made here, orange because it’s my favorite. She made the orange curtains in my room too. And uh… She—”

The other chokes on the word, and Sam doesn’t hesitate to sit down beside him and pull him close, to hush him with soothing sounds as he buries his face in Sam’s soft grey hoodie. Sam rubs Misha’s back in a hollow attempt at comfort, and doesn’t murmur “it’s okay,” because it isn’t. Misha has just lost his mother, and now, he’s about to lose his home too. How could anything possibly be okay? Sam can’t help thinking of Dean — maybe it never will be. But “You have me,” he says instead. “You’ll always have me,” _so you’ll never be alone._

Misha scoffs into thick cotton. “You mean Jess will always have you,” he corrects hoarsely, and Sam shakes his head.

“That’s different,” he says fiercely, tightening his embrace. “And I’d never put her before you, Mish. You’re no less important to me than she is. I’ll always be here if you need me.”

Misha sags against him with a choked sob then, and just as he had the other day, begins crying in earnest. Sam just runs his hands through soft hair, down a trembling back, and encourages him to “let it all out, Mish. That’s it. Just let go. I’m here, Mish. I’m right here. I’ll always be here.”

And when Misha finally quiets down and falls asleep, Sam carries him into his room to put him to bed. Misha stirs as Sam tucks the blankets around him and catches Sam by the wrist as he turns to leave. “Don’t go,” he whispers, and Sam never could deny those pleading blue eyes, even when they weren’t bloodshot and puffy, so he nods and squeezes in beside Misha on the narrow cot to cocoon his best friend in his arms to sleep.

~*~

Sam frowns at the mixture in the pot. He thinks that’s how it’s done. The ingredients seem right, and he’s quite sure he’s followed the steps to the letter, but it doesn’t look quite like how he remembers. He scoops a little with a spoon and tastes it. Hm… It’s in the ballpark, at least. Maybe a bit of simmering would do the trick? He lowers the heat and covers the pot before putting the spoon in the sink.

Just then, the bedroom door bursts open, and Misha comes running out. He turns as his best friend freezes, and Misha's expression goes from afraid to angry to morose in the span of a second.

Oh.

Oh no.

Maybe Misha thought it was his mother. Maybe this is what she does in the morning, and he's afraid he'll find he's dreaming; maybe he’s afraid Sam will burn down the kitchen after what happened the last time; or maybe he thought Sam was gone too. Sam doesn’t know, but “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he apologizes immediately, flailing because he's upset Misha, and this is the worst time in the world to give Misha more stress. “I just… I thought…”

Misha seems to snap out of it then, and shakes his head. He opens his mouth, closes it again, takes a deep breath, and finally settles for running a hand through his hair and coming into the kitchen. “What are you making?” he asks tiredly.

“Um.” Sam ducks his head, letting his hands fall to his side, and represses the urge to keep apologizing profusely. “Tomato rice soup. It's not turning out quite like I remember, though,” he mumbles sheepishly. Cooking has always been Dean's area. Sam can barely manage a few basics.

But the corners of Misha's mouth quirk up in a small smile, and it's the first smile Sam's seen on him since that awful phone call, so _it's okay,_ he thinks. It's okay even if it's at his expense, if it'll make Misha smile.

“Let me see.” Misha lifts the lid to look in and rinses the spoon in the sink off before trying some. “Hm.”

Then he goes to the fridge and rifles around inside before pulling out two jars. Grabbing a clean spoon, he scoops some green paste out of one jar and drops it into the pot, then empties out the other jar (Sam recognizes it as tomato paste) into the soup. Scooping some broth into the second jar, he screws the lid back on and shakes it, then pours in the mixture as well. When he stirs it, the soup turns a lot redder, flecked with bits of dark green. Misha tastes it and makes a sound of approval before holding out the spoon. Sam leans down to try it, and it's... different. Different but better.

“It's not how I remember, but it's delicious, Mish. Thanks. You keep salvaging my attempts at cooking.”

Misha smiles fondly, and that's twice. Twice after almost five days of moping, and Sam can't help mirroring the expression. Sometimes, in moments like these, he feels such a deep affection for his best friend; he doesn't know how he got by before they met. _Dean,_ his brain supplies, and he's glad Misha turned away to stir the soup again when he did, because the thought makes him sad, and he doesn't want to ruin the moment. He wraps his arms around Misha and rests his chin on his best friend's head as the other tries a few grains of rice, then turns off the stove.

“Sam,” Misha sighs, leaning back into him. “I... I need to get the bowls in the cabinet.”

He chuckles, letting go, and Misha goes to do just that, handing him the bowls, so he can ladle out the soup.

“Why tomato rice soup?” Misha asks as he places a bowl on the table.

“It's one of the few things I can kinda make without burning down your kitchen?”

Sam sits down across from him with his own bowl, and they start on breakfast.

“Let me guess. Your mother used to make it for you when you were sick?”

Sam pauses eating and hesitates to answer, because this is the last conversation he wants to be having with Misha right now. “My brother, actually,” he offers instead, with a sardonic smile.

“O—Oh.”

They continue eating in a silence that stretches on in increasing awkwardness until Sam blurts, “I never knew my mother,” because he can't bear it any longer. “I guess she used to make it for Dean whenever he was sick, though. That's why he made it whenever I was.” He winces as he finishes. Misha is staring at him now, and it feels like he's only made things worse. “W—would you like more soup?” he tries lamely, standing.

Misha blinks. “Sure.” He holds out his empty bowl, and Sam hurriedly takes it to the kitchen to get them seconds, berating himself as he goes. He's usually good with people, but somehow this conversation is going all wrong, and things have never been so awkward with his best friend before.

When he returns, Misha has gone on to staring vacantly at the table. “Mish?” he calls anxiously as he sets the bowls down, and when blue eyes lift to meet his, they're moist. He opens his mouth to start apologizing all over again, but suddenly, Misha smiles.

“Thank you, Sam,” he says, taking Sam's hands in his own.

 _What?_ “Misha?”

The tears are falling freely, but Misha makes no effort to wipe them away. “I'm doing this wrong. Momma wouldn't have wanted to see me like this.” He shakes his head. “You reminded me, Sam.”

And Sam can only gape as Misha squeezes his hands.

“I have nearly twenty years to cherish.”

~*~

They spend the day making calls, Misha to friends and relatives and Sam for arrangements, and by the time they're done, Misha is stretched out on the couch with his head in Sam's lap, looking completely drained. He seems to be holding up, though —sad and exhausted, but coping, even though giving the news over and over can't be easier than dealing with it in silence— and Sam's glad. He keeps finding new things to admire in his best friend, and sometimes he wonders what someone so amazing even sees in him. He feels awful for not preventing this tragedy, because Misha deserves so much better. He doesn't know what he could have done, but he should have done _something,_ and he doesn't know how to tell Misha, because he's afraid Misha will never speak to him again, and he's not sure he can handle that. So now all he can do is try to be comforting, and hope there'll be some way he can atone.

Just then, his cell phone rings, and he pushes the thoughts away as he answers. It's Jess.

“Hey,” she greets cheerfully. “How's your week been so far?”

“I'm... managing,” is what he settles for. “And yours?”

“Good. It's been a pretty good week so far. So um... What time are you coming tomorrow?”

 _Shit._ That's right. He was supposed to go for lunch with Jess and her family tomorrow. In all the chaos, it had completely slipped his mind. “Oh God, Jess, I am so sorry,” he groans, running a hand through his hair, and Misha tilts his head in question, squeezing his elbow lightly. “I can't make it tomorrow. I'm in Boston right now.”

“Boston?” she repeats, surprised. “What are you doing there suddenly?”

He tenses, glancing down at Misha. “It's um... It's Misha's mom.” Misha closes his eyes and squeezes Sam's wrist, mouthing “it's okay,” and Sam bows his head with a resigned sigh. “She's... She um... She passed away.”

Jess gasps. “Oh. Oh God. Oh no. Is he okay?”

Misha nods, and Sam answers, “Yeah. He's surviving.”

“Thanks to you,” his roommate mouths, and Sam shakes his head, giving Misha's shoulder a brief squeeze.

“Oh wow. I... Tell him I'm so sorry to hear that. I just... This must be hard. It's so sudden. I don't even— God, I'm so sorry. How? What happened?”

That is literally the last thing he wants to talk about, so “I—I don't know,” he lies, burying his face in his hands. “The whole thing sounds kinda crazy,” he adds truthfully. “I don't even know what to think anymore.”

“Huh.” Jess sounds a little shaken, and she takes a deep breath before she speaks again. “So uh... when is... When's the—”

“Tomorrow. We'll be heading back to Stanford on Tuesday, most likely.”

“Okay. Okay. You guys take care, all right? Tell Misha I'd be there if I could get to Boston by tomorrow.”

He leans back, letting his head drop to rest on the thick stack of knitted throws draped over the wooden back. “Thanks, Jess. I'm sorry about lunch. Maybe next week?”

“We'll see. I'll let them know. I'll see you on Tuesday when you get back, okay?”

“Yeah. Really, I’m sorry. Bye.”

“It’s okay. Bye, babe. I love you.”

She hangs up, and he drops the phone onto the couch, suddenly feeling every bit as tired as his best friend looks.

“I'm sorry you'll miss your date,” Misha pipes up quietly, and he sits up.

“God, no. Don't say that, Mish. You wouldn't be my best friend if there's anywhere else I'd be right now.”

Blue eyes slide shut. “Thank you, Sam. I'm glad you're here. There's no one else I'd rather have, _no one._ ”

Sam smiles fondly and drags his knuckles lightly through fuzzy stubble; Misha nuzzles into the touch like a cat.

“A kitty not just in the morning, I see,” he teases with a wry smile, in hopes of lightening the mood a bit.

The other punches him lightly in the stomach. “She-llama.”

Misha sticks out his tongue, and Sam can't help chuckling in spite of everything.

“Hey.” An idea suddenly occurred to him.

“Mm?”

“Want to go for a run?” Maybe some routine will take Misha's mind off things. Exercise produces endorphins, and Misha loves running.

Misha immediately sits up. “Actually, yes. Let's.”

They change, warm up a bit, and head out, breaking into a brisk jog towards the park. After a few blocks, Misha speeds up, and he matches the pace easily.

“Cheater. Long legs,” Misha gripes breathlessly, speeding up again. “Race you.”

So they run, harder than usual, possibly further than usual, without any particular destination in mind. Whoever's ahead picks the next turn, and they lead each other all over the city. Finally, Misha runs into a park and sprawls back on the grass gracelessly near some lilac bushes. Sam joins him on the ground beneath the evening sun, and they struggle to catch their breath in silence. He reaches for his roommate's hand and pats it.

“So. Since you gave up first,” he breathes with a grin, “I guess that means I win?”

“How dare you, Sam Winchester. You never gave me the red pill. This wasn't a fair contest to begin with.”

Sam gasps a laugh. “Silly Mish. You don't need a red pill. You're the fucking Source.”

Misha snorts a little. “The Overlord of the world, real or otherwise. Kinda has nice ring to it.”

They lie side by side in silence, letting the cool, lilac-scented breeze and the chirping of the birds soothe them, and when he finally feels rested enough, Sam sits up. “Want a drink?” he offers. “I remember passing some stores just now.”

“Oh, you _are_ the best, Sam. What would I do without you? Get me some coconut water if you can find it. Otherwise, any kind of pure fruit juice is fine.”

Sam huffs, reaching out to ruffle Misha's sweat-soaked hair and grinning at how it stays an unruly mess. “All hail the Overlord,” he teases, climbing to his feet and bowing theatrically. “Your wish is my command.”

It's as he's straightening that he sees it. Out of the corner of his eye, half-hidden by the underbrush in the denser wooded section of the park to his left. He'd recognize that dog anywhere — wolf-like, fallow brindle with a black mask, the monster in his nightmare that wasn't just a nightmare. He looks around, making sure he isn't seeing things, and it's really there. His fingers curl into fists at his side in anger. Wild dogs don't go straight for the heart like that and leave most of the body behind. Werewolves do that, but they don't take full canine form. He did his research this morning while Misha was still asleep. It's almost certainly a Skinwalker, and he knows how to kill it. He's not going to wait for Dad or some other hunter. He's not going to let it kill one more person here.

This was supposed to be normal.

 _Misha's life_ was supposed to be normal.

And that beast has ruined it forever.

He can't change that, but the least he can do is prevent another tragedy. If Dad has taught him anything, it's to always be prepared for the monster at large. He slips his right hand into his pocket, running his fingers along the weapon, and thinks to tell Misha to wait somewhere safer, but he doesn't know how to explain this. Fortunately, the open area they're in is fairly crowded, so the creature likely won't attack here.

“Watch yourself,” he warns anyway, pretending to head to the shops, so he can circle around, and never taking his eyes off his mark. “I'll be right back.”

Hopefully, Misha won't miss his silver-plated letter opener.

~*~

The rest of the year passes in a blur of work, papers and exams. As soon as they got back, Misha and Sam returned to barely seeing each other, but what little Sam does see of Misha allays his worries. They have a corner in their room now where they turned all the knitted throws and handmade cushions and seat pads from Misha's home into a couch of sorts, and sometimes Misha sleeps there instead of in his bed. It's also a nice place to read and study.

Finally done with the week’s reading, Sam’s about to head to bed, when his roommate sits up abruptly with a sharp gasp, hyperventilating. In a flash, he’s by Misha’s bedside.

“Hey. Hey, Misha. Mish, you okay?”

He places a grounding hand on Misha’s knee, and his best friend flinches away from the touch before turning to look at him and sighing. He lets his hand fall to his side.

“Sam.” The word comes out raspy through Misha’s dry throat. The other closes his eyes and swallows before speaking again, running a hand through his hair. “Sam, I’m fine. Sorry.”

He shakes his head, silently chiding himself. “Nightmare?” Misha has been having a lot of those lately.

“Y—Yeah.”

His own nightmares have grown more frequent, and now he keeps searching the crowd around him for faces he’s seen in them, but he hasn’t found any yet. More often than not, though, he dreams of Misha finding out and leaving, or snapping, or never forgiving him, and he knows Misha isn’t like that —Misha is loyal and strong and doesn’t hold grudges— but Sam can’t help being haunted by the thought. He stamps it down firmly. Misha has buried his face in his hands. Maybe a change of scenery would do them both some good.

“Want to go for a walk?”

Misha turns to him and blinks, but then moves to climb down. “Sure, yes. It might help. Just uh… let me change into something warmer.”

Sam nods, grabbing a mug and pouring some fresh milk into it from their mini fridge before popping the mug in the microwave. By the time Misha is dressed again after shucking his pajamas into the laundry hamper, Sam is stirring a spoon of honey into the milk.

“I thought we were going for a walk.”

“We are.” Sam presses the mug into his hands. “You can drink this while walking.”

Misha sips the warm milk. It’s perfect, just the way he likes it. “Wine is more effective, you know,” he quips with a smile.

“Whenever someone else decides to buy some,” Sam agrees, steering him out with an arm around his shoulders.

They begin slowly circling the nearby compound, strolling along the edge of Lake Lagunita. Even now, really, it’s not much of a lake.

“How are you holding up?” he asks, as Misha pauses to take another sip of milk.

“I’m fine, Sam, I promise,” Misha assures him, leaning a little into his side, and Sam feels a bit relieved. “Just can’t get that image out of my mind.”

Sam knows exactly which he means. “I don’t blame you. Say, are you staying for summer?” he asks, changing the subject.

His effort gets him a wry chuckle. “Where else would I go? I suppose I could visit my dad, but he has his own family now, and three months would simply be intruding, no matter what they say.”

 _Smooth, Sam._ “I mean, uh… So am I. Have you applied for housing?”

“No, but if you’re ready to apply, you can go ahead start the group on Axess and give me the password.”

“Yeah! Yeah, I’ll do it tomorrow.” Well, that’s one thing down. He didn’t really think that Misha would want to stay with anyone else, since Vicki won’t be staying for summer, but the next one… The next one would probably be asking a huge favor. “Err… What about next year?”

Misha halts to drink from his mug again. “You could start the group application for that too.” He resumes walking.

“O—Okay. Um. W—What do you think about a quad?” _Very smooth, Sam. Good job._

Misha stops. “A quad? With whom?”

“Um, see, Jess was suggesting we move in together next year, and I like her, and I don’t know how to turn her down, so I was kinda vague, but I think she’s assuming ‘yes,’ but I—I don’t think we’re ready to live together with just the two of us yet,” he blurts in a rush. “I mean, we’ve only been dating for a few months! Isn’t that a bit too soon? And I’ve even met her parents! Do people do that after just a few months?” He flails. “I—I think we’re moving too fast, but now that I’ve kinda, sorta agreed, it’d be awful to change my mind, so—so I was hoping we could try it out in a quad with some friends. You know, like uh… see what it’s like living in close proximity before moving in with each other per se.” His best friend is gaping at him as he finishes his awkward spiel, and Sam wishes he could just… turn invisible at will.

“And you want _me_ to share that quad…?” Misha surmises slowly like he can’t believe his ears. “Wait, wait; quad meaning four, so me and whom?”

Sam scratches his head. “Um. Whomever you want? Maybe Vicki? Has she applied yet?”

Misha closes his eyes and opens them again, still incredulous. “You want _me, and Vicki,_ to be your girlfriend buffer for the year?”

Sam hangs his head, ready to die from embarrassment. “W—well, when you put it that way…”

His best friend runs a hand through his hair. “Sam, l—”

“See, we were planning to apply to one of those co-ops, maybe Columbae or Synergy, because Jess has friends there, and the rooms are nice, plus it’s cheaper than a one-bedroom in EV, but even though we’d be sharing a house with another thirty, forty people, we’d still practically be moving in together, and we’ll be surrounded by her friends, and—and I’d miss you, Mish.” He looks sincerely into blue eyes. “It’s been a great year, and I never thought I’d enjoy living with someone other than Dean so much. And I mean, I’m sure the people I’ll be living with there are going to be great, but it wouldn’t be the same.”

Misha downs the rest of his milk in one long swig and sighs. “I’ll ask Vicki.”

 

Later that day, Victoria Vantoch opens her door to a very sullen Misha Collins.

“You will n—okay, yes, you will, but I don’t even know what I was thinking!” Misha slips past her to plant himself face down in her bed and groan like he’s dying.

“Okay,” she says slowly, shutting the door. “What monumentally stupid thing have you done this time?”

“—s time?” He lifts his head to glare at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that it wouldn’t be the first. Do we want to recount the time you stole my v—”

“NO!!”

Vicki crosses her arms. “Well?”

Misha’s response is little more than muffled groaning.

“I’m not inside the pillow.”

Misha rolls over to lie spread-eagled on her bed and stare morosely up at the ceiling. “I said I agreed to move into a co-op with Sam and Jess,” he sighs quietly.

There’s a long pause in which he can hear Vicki silently judging him, then “Wow, you _are_ a masochist.”

He sighs, smothering his face with her pillow. “I just… I couldn’t say no, all right?”

She sits down on the bed beside him. “Let me guess: you had some amazing dream about the two of you together the night before he asked.”

Right before, actually, but that wasn’t the problem, and Misha doesn’t know why color is rising on his face. “That’s not why I said yes.”

“Isn’t it? You’re always like this. You dream of an ideal, and spend the next waking week impulsively doing crazy things towards it. It’s part of what makes you amazing, but anyone else would have learned better from all the trouble it’s gotten you into.”

Misha sits up glumly. “I told you that wasn’t why I said yes.” He runs a hand through his hair. “He… he looked me dead in the eyes and told me he’d miss me, that it wouldn’t be the same, and I felt— still feel exactly the same way—”

“About watching him and Jess make out?” Vicki interjects pointedly, and he glares balefully at her.

“I _like_ living with him, Vick. I’d miss him too. And, like I said, I wasn’t thinking.”

She sighs, patting him on the knee. “He’s taking advantage of your being a complete sucker for him.”

He frowns. “Sam’s not like that.”

“How can anyone possibly be so dense?!” She throws her hands up in frustration, flopping back gracelessly.

He flops back down as well, sighing again. “So. Would you prefer a double or a quad?”

She turns to Look at him. “So that’s why you’re here.”

He properly blushes this time. “Hey, you did say you wanted to live in a co-op before you came here.”

“Not if it means watching you pine for one roommate while he makes out with the other.”

Misha rolls onto his side to turn pleading eyes on her. “C’mon, Vick, you wouldn’t let me endure this alone, would you?”

She shrugs. “You brought this upon yourself. I’m disinclined to be sympathetic.”

“You owe me one,” he reminds her, glowering. “You put fucking llamas in my car, and they fucking pooped.”

Vicki scowls. “That’s low.”

He pouts, whining “But Vicki, you’re the only person I know who can make this whole thing bearable. And we were going to live together until we found out we can’t pick our freshman roommates _and_ we’d have to sell our organs and souls on the black market to afford apartments here anyway.” He tugs beseechingly at her arm. "You can’t do this to me, Vick. I thought I trusted you.”

She groans. No one can deny Misha when he gets like this, no one, and the little shit fucking knows it too. “Fine.” She pulls her arm away to cover her eyes, so she can’t watch the beginning of disaster. “Fine. Give me the goddamned group name and password.”

~*~

By the end of Spring Quarter, Misha is so drained, he signs up for a ten-day silent meditative retreat. It was restorative before, and he needs it more than ever now. Sam, naturally, offers to drive him to the retreat and pick him up when it’s over. It’s Misha’s car, of course, but there’s little parking at the retreat, and they have to move into their summer residence while Misha is there, so Sam needs the car in the meantime.

It takes two trips for him to move all their things over to their summer apartment in Hulme. He drapes Misha’s throws over the couch and chairs, just like he remembers they looked back at Rebecca’s apartment, places the cushions on them, rearranges the furniture in the bedroom so it’s more like their old room in Granada, unpacks Misha’s things as much like Misha would himself as he can. He even lights Misha’s nag champa incense in various places, so the whole apartment smells like their old room did, and places Misha’s yoga mat out on the balcony where he bets Misha would want it. This is their home now, even if it’s just for ten weeks, and he doesn’t want Misha to feel any more displaced than he already does, losing his mother and home, having to move for the summer, and then again in the fall.

When he picks Misha up, Misha seems calmer, at peace, and he’s glad. They drive up to Boston to pick up the kitchenware, and Misha introduces him to Darius, a childhood friend, at whose apartment they spend the night. Vicki stops by, and they trade embarrassing stories about Misha before singing along to random songs that Darius plays on the piano as Misha accompanies with the guitar. Seeing how cheered Misha is, Sam suggests that Darius pay them a visit at Stanford soon.

When they finally arrive back at Stanford, Sam can’t help worrying as they head up to the apartment. Maybe it was presumptuous to try to decorate the place just like Misha’s old home. What if it brings back bad memories? But then they’re at the door, and Misha is unlocking it while Sam carries the things they brought, and it’s too late to be thinking about this now. He should have thought of this sooner.

Misha stops short when he flips on the lights, and Sam forgets to breathe.

It’s just a moment, then Misha is setting things down on the counter and helping him unpack the kitchenware into their proper places. He still worries, though — maybe Misha _is_ upset, but doesn’t want to say. He picks up all the bags and boxes they used to store them in the closet for when they move again, thinking he’ll ask or apologize afterwards, but when he returns to the kitchen, Misha is surveying the apartment with a pleased smile, patting the throw on the couch as he passes, and Sam heaves a sigh of relief. He follows Misha into the bedroom and sits down on the bed as Misha continues looking around.

“We can’t loft beds here,” he explains, if only to fill the silence. “And I tried to put your things back the way I remembered they were in our old room. I hope I got it mostly right.”

“Oh, Sam,” Misha sighs. “You assume I’m a homesick maniac with OCD.” He turns, grinning as he steps closer. “But I suppose, since I’m so happy to see all this, you may be right.” He pulls Sam into a hug. “Thank you, Sam. It’s lovely.”

~*~

Despite the meditation, despite the distraction of summer classes, Misha can’t help feeling a little down. He misses Momma, and he still has nightmares about why he can’t just pick up the phone and call her anymore. They’ve always been close, and it feels… lonely not being able to talk to her. Sam’s with him a lot, since he only occasionally sees Jess now that she’s back home, and that’s at once great and terrible — oh, he enjoys their time together, but the more time they spend together, the worse it feels every time Jess visits, the more painful is every reminder that Sam’s with someone else. He thought he’d come to terms with that during the retreat, but maybe it was less the leap in self-understanding and more the ten days away from Sam; now that they’re together all the time again, he’s finding he doesn’t feel much differently from before.

It’s his birthday today, and he has no classes on Friday. Sam hasn’t been around all day, probably didn’t even return last night. He knows this since he was going to wake the other up for their morning run earlier, but found his bed empty. He’d go for the run himself, but he just hadn’t been feeling up to it. He sits up and catches sight of a card on his lap. The handwriting on the envelope says it’s from Vicki, so Sam must have been back briefly while he was asleep to take in the mail.

“I have a gift for you, of course,” it reads, “but I know how much you love treasure and scavenger hunts, so you’ll have to find it! Here’s your first clue: ‘Your roommate looks like he uses this place a lot near Canada.’ Don’t worry; you won’t have to leave the Farm. Happy birthday, hun!”

Excitedly, Misha climbs out of bed and changes out of his pajamas. Vicki always knows how to brighten his day.

“Hm.” He takes another look at the clue as he pulls on his shoes. _Sam looks like he uses…_ He thinks of perfect abs and shakes his head to clear the image from his mind. “Gym. The gym.” He heads out to the rack to get his bike. _Near Canada though… Oh! Arrillaga. It’s by Maples Pavilion!_

Destination decided, he sets off towards Campus Drive. As soon as he walks in, the girl on duty spots him and hurries over. “Here, I was told to give you this if you came.”

It’s another card, and he thanks her, opening it as he leaves. It reads simply, ‘Clue 2: Towering above us, Mr. President?’

Misha grins and heads to Hoover Tower. Again, the receptionist in the lobby hands him another card. This one reads, ‘Clue 3: Find that which you long for in artful bronze arms.’ He shakes his head, smiling wistfully as he gets back on his bike. _C’mon, Vick, now that’s just mean._ He cycles leisurely around The Oval to the Rodin Sculpture Garden before making his way on foot over to The Kiss. Between the two entwined bronze figures, there’s another card. ‘Clue 4: Once for the fair, now all the vowels; if the mode is mean, we have no variance.’

 _All the vowels? Once for… Aha, Sequoia! The Stats department, too!_ He pulls out his cell phone and texts Vicki. ‘Hey. I’m not mean. And how many of these are there?’

The reply arrives as he’s on his way to Sequoia Hall, and he pauses to read it. ‘No more than I am. And wouldn’t you like to know?’

Argh. He stops near Sequoia Hall and heads inside. A boy sitting nearby looks up and hurries over. “I was told to give you this. Happy birthday, by the way.” Another card. He thanks the boy, who promptly returns to his book.

‘Clue 5: I hold the Viking’s weapon flat in my hand.’

He’s getting tired and a little hungry now, so The Axe & Palm is a welcome destination. It’s not very far, but by the time he arrives, it feels like he’s cycled all over campus, and he hasn’t cycled so much since he was a kid delivering newspapers. He contemplates getting a salad as he walks in, but he’s barely sat down when a staff person comes over.

“I was told to give you this when you came, and we’re making your strawberry banana smoothie right now, so I’ll get it for you in a minute. It’s already paid for, so no worries. Can I get you anything else?”

He smiles, shakes his head and thanks her for the card. How thoughtful of Vicki to throw in the drink too. The same girl comes back with the smoothie, but hurries off to attend to other customers. Absently, as he sips the smoothie, he wonders where Sam has been all day, if he’s been with Jess. He can’t help the jealousy that comes with the thought, and he quickly tamps down on it, opening the next clue to distract himself.

‘Clue 6: No matter the water, I am a misnomer.’

 _No matter the water… Aha! Lake Lag is never much of a lake, no matter the season._ Once he’s finished the smoothie, he feels somewhat rested, so he sets off towards Lake Lagunita. The sun is beginning to set, and he wonders where he’ll find the clue. Slowly, he circles the lake, keeping an eye out for anything out of place. He doesn’t have to search for very long. On the Western bank, near the driving range, a short wooden stick has been driven into the ground. A slit cut into the top holds an envelope with his name on it. He takes it and opens it.

This time, there is no card, just a printout of the Monopoly GO square. Nothing else is written on it. He looks around. Well, in its original position, the arrow would have been pointing northeast.

_That’s… Wait._

All of a sudden, it hits him like a slap in the face.

“Damn it, Vicki! I’m gonna get you for this!”

~*~

It’s dark by the time he reaches Hulme after the wild goose chase around campus. In retrospect, he probably should have checked around the apartment before heading out, but admittedly, that wouldn’t have been much fun. Tiredly, he locks his bike to the rack and heads up, jiggling his keys absently. He wonders if Sam is back yet, if they’ll get to have dinner together for his birthday. The apartment is dark and quiet when he opens the door, and he pushes away his disappointment, reaching for the light switch.

Just then, a light comes on in the living room. It illuminates a painted box.

“Happy birthday to you~” There are six voices singing, six hand puppets in the illuminated box moving in time with the song: a puppy, a tiger, a fairy, a Smurf, Cookie Monster, and a llama.

_Oh. OH._

“Happy birthday dear Misha~ Happy birthday to you!”

Bass drops and music starts up as the lights come on, and only Darius would do that, so he’s not surprised to see him there with Erin and Keith, who are now pumping a keg for beer. Vicki comes over to where he’s frozen by the door.

“Here’s your puppet: Kermit the Frog,” she says, pressing it into his hands with a grin. “Happy birthday, hun.”

“Aww…” He puts it on. He’d always wanted one of these, just never quite got around to buying one. “This… This is awesome, Vick.” He hugs her tightly. “Thank you.”

She returns the hug, then lets go and steps aside. “You’re welcome, but it’s not really me you should be thanking.” She inclines her head towards Sam, who is watching with Jess from behind the theater box with a fond smile. “Sam planned this whole thing. I only wrote the clues, bought the puppets, and made the box for the puppet theater. Jess baked the cake and the cookies, Erin made the pasta and salad, Keith bought the beer keg, and Darius brought his sound system. But Sam’s the one who got us all here and went around planting the clues and coaxing people into playing along.”

“S—Saaam…” Their eyes meet across the room, and he wants to go over and kiss the man senseless, but he can’t. He _can’t,_ so he runs over and almost tackles Sam to the floor with the fierce hug. “Thank you,” he mumbles, face buried in Sam’s chest. “This is amazing. Thank you so much, Sam.”

His roommate returns the embrace. “You’re welcome, Mish. It’s good to see you happy. Happy birthday.”

He just clings to Sam because he can’t bring himself to let go, and it isn’t till Jess asks, “So should we cut the cake now or later?” that he realizes how long he’s been holding Sam.

“Later,” he decides, letting go at last. “The pasta smells good.”

Erin makes a great puttanesca, and they finish off the pasta and salad with little difficulty. Darius insists Vicki and Misha demonstrate Appalachian clogging. It’s been a few years since he’s done it, so it ends in utter failure on his part much to everyone’s amusement. They’re less amused when he trips over the keg hose and onto Keith and Erin. Sam helps him up, and he tries to get Sam to try the dance, too.

“No, no, I have two giant left feet. This will end in disaster,” Sam protests, as Misha tugs him over to a bit of free space.

“I’ll vouch for that,” Jess says with a laugh, finishing her cup of beer.

“Then something simpler! C’mon, I’ll teach you! Darius?”

Darius skips to another song, slow and familiar with simple, charming guitar strumming the opening chords.

“Ooh!” Misha runs over to grab his Kermit hand puppet where he left it on the table and puts it on as the song starts. “Why are there so many songs about rainbows, and what’s on the other side?” he sings along cheerfully, moving the hand puppet in sync as he twirls back over to Sam’s side. “Rainbows are visions, but only illusions, and rainbows have nothing to hide~” He takes both of Sam’s hands and swings them slowly to the beat, stepping from side to side.

Sam awkwardly tries to follow along and, for the most part, succeeds.

“So we’ve been told, and some choose to believe it.” Switching it up, he pushes Sam a little to step back, then pulls him a step forward, then pushes him back again. “I know they’re wrong; wait and see~” He lifts their arms, one side at a time. “Someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection~” He releases one hand to turn under Sam’s arm, “The lovers, the dreamers and me…” and finishes by twirling into a hug with his back to Sam. He cheers. “Now let’s try that again for the next stanza!”

Jess claps her hands, laughing, as they repeat the sequence, and Sam gets a little less uncoordinated now that he knows the steps. Sam ruffles Misha’s hair as they sway along to the bridge, and Misha beams up at him happily, still singing along. He’s glad. He hasn’t seen Misha this cheerful since before Rebecca passed away. When the song ends, everyone claps at the accomplishment.

“Good job, birthday boy!” Jess comes over and tiptoes to peck Sam on the cheek. “And congratulations, baby! Maybe we can teach you more over the next year?”

Sam laughs. “Sure, sure. Don’t get your hopes up too high, though.”

They move on to the cake then. Misha wishes that Momma is happy wherever she is, and that he and Sam will always be together, even if only as friends, and blows out all the candles. It’s a carrot cake covered in cream cheese frosting flavored with a bit of maple syrup, and it’s delicious. The cookies are orange with caramelized ginger bits, and just as amazing. Jess outdid herself on these. Darius brought Twilight Imperium as well, and they play it over dessert. They’re barely halfway through, and Keith is temporarily ahead, by the time eleven o’clock comes around, and Jess announces that she has to head home. Realizing the time, Keith and Erin decide to take off too. Only Vicki and Darius are staying the night before they drive back to Boston in the morning.

They pack up and head downstairs, Sam to walk Jess to her car and Misha to keep Keith and Erin company to theirs. Vicki and Darius tag along with Misha.

“You know,” Vicki says conversationally as they watch Keith and Erin drive off. “I’m beginning to see why you’re so hung up on the guy.”

“Dude, I had no idea that was his girlfriend until they kissed earlier,” Darius chimes in as they begin walking back. “I thought you two were an item.”

Misha sighs. Further down the street, he can see Sam opening the car door for Jess and giving her a goodnight kiss on the cheek. He looks away. “Jess is great, though. Gorgeous, too.”

“That she is,” Darius agrees, still looking on appreciatively. “I was talking to her earlier, and we exchanged AIM screen names so we can keep in touch.”

Vicki frowns. “I can’t decide which would be better: for him to keep his distance or continue being an awesome friend.”

“Maybe some time away would help,” Misha concedes. “At the retreat, ten days alone, I thought I came to terms with this. But as soon as I see him again, all the things I love about him stand out with such clarity, and I realize that nothing has changed. And I missed him. I don’t know that keeping my distance in the long term would make me any happier.”

Jess drives off, and Sam jogs back over to where they’re waiting at the entrance. Misha can’t help smiling as Sam comes to a stop beside him. Sam mirrors the expression, and they all head back up to their unit.

“So how are we doing this?” Darius asks as they enter the apartment, looking at the one couch in the living room.

“Hm.” Misha scratches his head, pensive.

“Well, if we push Misha’s bed and mine together, the three of us could share that, and Vicki can take the couch,” Sam suggests. “Mish has plenty of pillows and blankets to go around.”

 

Some hours later, Misha has to admit Vicki is right: he _is_ a masochist. Looking from left to right, he wonders how he’ll get any sleep. On his right, Darius is sound asleep on his side, hugging one of Misha’s arms. It’s not the most comfortable position, but Misha will live. Sam on his left, however, is asleep on his stomach, one arm draped around Misha’s waist, and Misha can’t determine whether it’s the weight or the longing that’s keeping him awake. He sighs.

One day, he decides, he’ll get over Sam. Today is not that day.


	3. Like The Wind Sweeps The Earth

All things considered, living with Sam and Jess really isn’t so bad. The quad is pretty spacious, and the couple does little more than cuddle, at least where he can see them. Misha can handle that just fine. The people in the co-op are great, too — they hold fundraisers and volunteer events every month, with weekly fun activities in between, they actively recycle, and most of them are decent cooks, which is fortunate, since they take turns preparing house meals. Sam and Misha share the same kitchen shift, so Misha cooks while Sam cleans or helps with preparation, and together they mostly overcome Sam’s inability to properly cook even tomato rice soup unaided. Misha loves the fresh produce, and cleaning the house with the others makes it feel a lot like home.

They also make new friends among their housemates — Misha hooks up with Tom, who reminds him a bit of Sam, for a pleasant, albeit unsatisfying night and Vicki hits it off with Maya from the room next door. Maya’s roommate, Nancy, went to high school with Jess, and Sam studies with Luis, a junior with whom he shares a few classes. Jess, of course, already knows everyone; she visited her friends here often, and they love her and her cookies. Like the other houses, Columbae has a Halloween tradition, but this year, instead of partying or participating in the yearly Halloween games, Tom, Jeff, Shawna and Alex want to camp in a nearby haunted house for the night. Misha doesn’t really believe it’s haunted, but it does sound way more fun than the parties, games, and trick-or-treating.

Sam, on the other hand, is objecting vehemently. “Why would you ever want to do that? First off,” he says, lifting a finger, “that house is ancient, and there are probably worse hazards in there than a ghost. Secondly, that’s trespassing, which is illegal, and we could get caught and arrested. Thirdly, what if it really is haunted, and the spirit is violent? Why take that risk? This isn’t a game, guys; people could actually get hurt.”

Jeff leans back in his chair. “Wow, man, you’ve got some strong feelings about this. Why so serious? There’s no proof the place is even really haunted. All we’ve heard is that a bunch of people moved in and then out again because it felt spooky.”

Sam frowns. “And if it’s not haunted, doesn’t that defeat the purpose of your trip?”

“You’re missing the point,” Alex chimes in patiently, crossing her legs. “It’s about the atmosphere, the tantalizing possibility that it might really be haunted, and,” she bares her teeth in a feral grin, “we’ll get to see who freaks out first.”

“Tantalizing?” Sam repeats with his best ‘seriously?’ bitchface. “You think being attacked and thrown around by a ghost trying to kill you is _tantalizing_?”

“Look, man, you don’t have to go,” Tom cuts in finally, running a hand through his hair. “Why are you even in this discussion if you’re not interested? Jess is going to Synergy’s house party. Why don’t you go with her?”

Shawna raises an eyebrow, looking from one to the other. “Wassup with you today, anyway? Look how excited Misha is. Ain’t you two like twins or somethin’?”

Next to Sam, Misha is rocking in his seat, knees hugged to his chest and a wide grin on his face. It’s adorable. Sam smothers his small smile to turn his sternest bitchface on Tom. “I don’t even like Halloween. Why would I want to celebrate it with a party? And I’m trying to keep you guys from doing something stupid and dangerous here.”

“For a big guy, you are no fun at all!” Alex complains, standing. “Well, we’re going, and whoever wants to join can join. Be back in five. I’m going for a smoke.” She heads out the door.

Shawna shrugs. “Watchu worried about anyway? Your homeboy here’s been telling everyone you’re like Blade.”

Sam resists the urge to bury his face in his hands. _Dammit, Misha…_

Misha rests his head on Sam’s shoulder and beams up at him. “C'mon, Sam. I doubt it’s really haunted, and this does sound way more interesting than the usual Halloween stuff. I mean, think about it. We could tell each other horror stories _in_ a haunted house, by flashlight, maybe see who can come up with the best backstory for the house! We could play hide and seek, and see who freaks out and gives up first. We could prank each other while we sleep, or—”

Sam sighs resignedly. There’s no stopping Misha once he gets like this, and Tom knows it too. He smirks and pointedly says, “I guess that means Misha’s coming along.”

Misha frowns at Tom. “Look, Sam.” He turns, so they’re facing each other. “I’m not asking you to come just because I’m going. You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

This is a bad idea. Sam can feel it in his bones. He shakes his head. “There is no way you’re going without me.”

~*~

The house is only two hours’ drive away. Sam has three bags of rock salt in his bag and an iron rod, and he's probably going to regret not bringing his gun when he left for Stanford. They go in two cars — Misha's and Jeff's. Alex rides with them because she likes Misha's music, but Misha won't let her smoke in his car, so they take a long break at the gas station, and the others get there before them. They park around the corner behind Jeff's plum-colored Honda, so it's less obvious that they're trespassing, and crawl through a hole in the wire fence.

The grass is overgrown, and the paint on the house's wooden boards is so peeled and faded that he can’t discern what color it used to be. In some places, the wood is warped; in others, it is broken, so there are sporadic holes in the wall. It doesn't look eerie so much as terribly run down, and already Sam is more worried about snakes and accidents than vengeful spirits. The steps creak dangerously as they climb and let themselves in the door. It smells dank and musty, and there are cobwebs in every corner. There's mold growing in some places, moss in others, and he's really glad Jeff thought to bring the tarp.

He's about to call out to the first group to ask where they've set up when they hear a scream. They stop.

“That's Tom,” Misha pipes up, anxiously clutching his things.

Tom screams again, “Heeelp!! Somebody pleeease!!” from somewhere below, and Sam drops his bag, unzipping it to get the iron bar and a flashlight.

“—t the fuck did you bring that for?” Alex looks incredulously at the rod.

“Snakes,” Sam lies, turning to Misha. “You stay by the door, and if it looks bad or I don't come back, or if you hear me yelling at you to run, you get out of here, okay?”

Misha just nods numbly as Tom screams again, stopping abruptly, and Sam heads into the dim hallway. Shawna and Jeff come down the stairs, looking worried and scared, and he tells them to wait by the door with Misha. He finds the door to the cellar and heads down more creaking steps. It's pitch dark, so he turns on his flashlight as he reaches the bottom of the steps. There's nothing but a bookcase up against the wall, a ceramic jar and some other odds and ends on its shelves, and a wooden chair with a small box on it — all covered in a thick layer of dust. There's a key in the side of the box, so it's probably a music box.

Sam looks around. “Tom?”

Suddenly, something grabs him roughly from behind. Sam instinctively whirls to take a swing at it.

“OW!! FUCK!!!”

“Tom?!”

“What the fuck are you, crazy?!”

Sam shines the flashlight on Tom, eyes red as he clutches his arm. Sam might have given him a fracture.

“Jesus Christ, Sam!! Why do you even have that metal stick with you?!”

“How about you tell me what the fuck you're doing down here?!” Sam retorts, climbing the stairs back up.

“I went looking for the john, and then I thought I'd get the fun started!” Tom yells back, following close behind.

“Well, it ain't funny,” Shawna cuts in with a sharp glare, standing at the top of the stairs with her hands on her hips. She lets Sam pass, but smacks Tom on the shoulder as he comes within reach.

“OW!!!”

It jars his hurt arm, but she walks after Sam unapologetically, and Tom kicks the cellar door shut hard enough to rattle the entire house. Something breaks downstairs — the jar, from the sound of it.

“You tryin' to get the cops on us, man?” Jeff asks as soon as he comes in sight.

“Jesus, guys! It was just a prank! You're the ones who thought up pranking each other here. I just wanted to see how you guys would react!”

“No, that's totally legitimate,” Misha replies, rolling his eyes and handing Sam his bag. “I wouldn't question that. It's science!” Not for the first time, he wonders what about Tom ever reminded him of Sam.

“Yeah, if stupidity were a science,” Alex drawls, stalking past. “C'mon, Jeff, show me where we're spending the night.”

They head up the stairs to a room where Jeff has already laid out the tarpaulin and set up for the night. They make ham and cheese sandwiches (cheese and egg salad for Shawna and Tom, who are vegetarian) and grab a beer each from Jeff's mini cooler. The sun is setting, Shawna and Alex are sitting close together, Jeff is already lying down inside his sleeping bag, Tom is still sullenly nursing his extremely bruised arm, and Misha is leaning into Sam’s side when they start guessing at the house’s backstory.

Alex starts with “I heard this house was once home to a Satanist cult, and they kidnapped people, usually the homeless because they’re less noticeable.”

Misha grimaces, and Sam squeezes his hand.

“And every month, on the full moon, they sacrificed them in the basement. They later moved out because the authorities were getting suspicious, but the spirits of the sacrifices they made are still trapped here.”

“Well, I haven’t heard of any Satanist activity around here, but they probably keep it on the DL,” Jeff muses. “I heard the original owner committed suicide in the basement after her second miscarriage, so she’d steal the children from every family who lived here after that, because she couldn’t have any of her own, and kill them so they’d have to stay with her forever.”

Beside him, Misha winces almost imperceptibly. It’s still too soon to be talking about mothers not resting in peace.

“So now she and all the kids she killed haunt this house together. Some of the kids will try to warn others about her, but others will try to get more playmates to stay with them, and every now and then, another child gets taken.”

“I heard that one of the families who lived here had a pet cat, and it was the prettiest thing,” Misha says then. “But one day, the father disappeared. They searched around, but they could never find him, not even a body. Next, the mother went missing. Again, everyone searched, but they couldn’t even find a body. So the two children were left, and their aunt came to live with them and help them pack. One night, the children couldn’t sleep, and they heard the cat mewing.”

Alex gives him a dirty look. “You did _not_ just go there.”

Misha grins, but continues the story. “They thought to ignore it, but it just kept going. So they went down the stairs to check, and it was mewing from the basement, but they got scared, so they ran back upstairs and hid in bed. The next day, their cat began acting strangely.”

Shawna and Tom snort simultaneously.

“It was violent and unsociable, instead of its usual sweet and friendly self. Its eyes were red, and it looked disheveled. That night, it mewed from the basement again. Their aunt went down to check, and she never came back. That’s when they learned!” Misha’s voice only grows more dramatic. “The next day, the cat was its usual lovely self, but now the children knew. So they poisoned the cat’s food and buried it in the park around the block when it died. But that night, they still heard the mewing in the basement!”

“Damn you, Misha,” Jeff mumbles with a scowl, hugging his knees.

“They huddled together and burrowed under the blankets and shut their ears, but it wouldn’t stop. Then they heard the scratching of claws on wood, first from below, then on the doors, then on the floor, then on the ceiling…”

“MEOW!”

Everyone jumps as a cat yowls outside, and Sam has to applaud its impeccable timing. This is probably Misha’s idea of being vindictive — Alex has three cats back home, Jeff has two.

“Well, it strangled the children in their sleep. There were paw and claw marks on their necks when they were found,” Misha continues with a grin. “So if you hear a cat mewing from the basement, don’t go down there. Don’t even wait. Just run. Leave town. Just run.”

"Well, I ain't heard 'bout no cats, but I knew the last family that lived here. That was a while back. I was —like— ten?" Shawna shrugs. "Anyway, they always said there was something in the basement, kept the door locked and never let anyone, including themselves, in. Like weird noises and shit. You should never have gone down there, Tom. At the time, I thought they were just trying to scare me, but then they moved out after that, because the girl, Leah —we went to the same school— she told me her bed would move half a foot during the night. Then soon, they started finding scratches on their doors; you see those? Next were the ceilings, and sometimes, when they looked in the mirrors, they would catch a glimpse of someone walking past, but there wasn’t anyone there. And there were often shadows where there shouldn’t be shadows. Like you know, there’s nothing here, but you can see a shadow behind it?”

“Was it a specific shape?” Sam asks, now worried that they might be dealing with something worse than a ghost.

Shawn shakes her head. “Not as far as Leah could tell. She said the shadows were different every time.”

“Wasn’t there some kind of vigilante going around town at the time, mysteriously finding criminals and bu— Do you guys hear that?” Sam cocks his head and strains to listen. It sounds like… a music box.

Misha shivers beside him and snuggles closer as the slow, tinkling melody of Für Elise grows louder, nearer. “Sam, is it just me, or has it gotten colder?”

Tom holds out the jacket he brought along that he isn’t wearing. “Here,” he offers, smiling slightly. “Put this on.”

Misha takes it and pulls it on. _Ah, yes,_ he thinks. Tom is always helpful, and he has pretty dimples, too.

Alex shivers as well. “Now that you mention it, it’s fucking freezing in here.”

 _Shit._ Sam lunges for his bag, grabs a bag of rock salt and rips it open just as a draft blows the door open.

There’s a man standing there, a bluish tint to his pale skin, hair combed back for a severe look to match his three-piece suit. The music box Sam saw in the basement is in his hands, open, and the little doll is spinning on the mirror. “Look who’s here for dinner, Elise,” he says to the little doll, his heavily accented voice a whispery sound on the wind. He turns to look at them, and from some angles, Sam can see right through him. “Now what shall we have today?”

Shawna screams. Sam darts forward and pours a line of salt between them and the ghost just as he moves towards them.

He smiles, vicious. “The brains, perhaps. They’re very smart.”

Jeff and Misha yelp as he pulls the tarpaulin out from under them. Tom makes a sound of pain; he fell on his bad arm.

Sam rolls to his feet and restores the salt line. “Get back! Stay behind the salt line!”

The others pick themselves up off the floor and obey, backing up against the wall. The ghost licks his lips as a strong wind picks up. The door slams shut. Slowly, it erodes the salt line.

“Jeff, Mish, get your keys!” Sam shouts, grabbing the iron rod in his bag and the remaining bags of salt.

“A—always had them,” Misha replies, right behind him. “Sam, is that really—?”

“Yes!” Sam swipes at the ghost with the iron rod. He reappears to the side. Sam immediately pours a salt line between them as he runs towards the door and kicks it down. “Now run, guys, _run_!!!”

Jeff is the first to start running, followed closely by Shawna, but Misha quickly overtakes them.

The ghost chuckles. “Oh Elise, the gazelle only _thinks_ it can outrun the cheetah.”

Sam takes another swipe at the ghost and runs out after Tom and Alex, just in time to see Misha slide down the banister instead of running down the stairs. He does the same, and has almost caught up to Misha when the ghost reappears between them and the front door. It grabs Misha by the throat. Misha manages a choked scream before Sam hits the ghost with the iron rod, and it vanishes. Sam catches Misha by the waist and half-carries him out the door. He pours a salt line at the threshold in hopes of slowing down the ghost, as the others run outside as well.

“C’mon! C’mon!” Jeff shouts, running for the hole in the fence and crawling out hurriedly towards his car.

“Go, go!” Sam pushes Misha towards the fence, and Misha quickly runs after Jeff with Alex close behind.

Sam waits to make sure the ghost isn’t following them, then runs out after the others. Jeff is already driving off. Misha starts driving before Sam’s even shut the door. Sam hurriedly slams the car door shut and leans back to catch his breath. They’re all silent, Misha, Sam and Alex, panting heavily from the mad dash, exhaustion setting in as the adrenaline burns away. Worriedly, Sam looks to the left. The tension beside him is palpable. Misha is driving with the intense concentration of someone determinedly shutting everything else out. There are dark bruises in the shape of fingers forming on Misha’s neck — they look deep and painful.

Hesitantly, he squeezes Misha’s shoulder. “Mish?”

Misha jumps a little and swerves abruptly into the gas station on their right. Fortunately, the road is empty. He stops and kills the engine, slumping slightly in his seat. Alex fumbles to open the car door in the back with shaking hands, muttering, “I need a cigarette.” She finally manages and slams it shut behind her to lean against it as she lights up.

“Hey,” Sam calls again. “Misha?”

Misha slumps forward to rest his forehead on the wheel, shaking, and Sam doesn’t wait any longer. He pulls his best friend into his arms. They left the pillows and blankets they brought in the house, and the rest are back in their rooms. He rubs Misha’s back and holds him tightly, hoping it’ll be enough, that it’ll soothe the shock.

“C’mon, Mish. Talk to me,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to Misha’s hairline briefly. The other’s skin is clammy with cold sweat. “You’re okay. You’re safe now. Shh… I’ve got you, Mish. It’s okay. I won’t let anything happen to you, I swear.”

Misha clings to him, burying his face in Sam’s shoulder, and struggles to calm his breathing. It takes some time, but eventually, Misha relaxes completely in his arms. “Sam?” His voice is soft, weary.

“Yeah?”

“Did that— was that—?”

“Really a ghost?” Sam sighs, resenting that he can’t get away from this, that he can’t keep Misha away from this. “Yeah.”

Misha nods, snuggling closer still. “How did you know?”

“Hm?”

“About the salt, the iron rod and stuff. How’d you know the haunting wasn’t a myth?”

“I didn’t,” Sam admits, ducking his head. “But they usually aren’t. Just myths, I mean.”

Misha pulls back to look at him. “Sounds like something you learned from experience.”

Sam thinks about the big family rule number one, thinks about two decades of secrecy, thinks about the essay he wrote about his most memorable family experience, about which his teacher commented “You know this assignment was non-fiction, right?” and realizes that he probably shouldn’t tell Misha the truth. But it’s Misha, Misha who believes in SHIELD and the Matrix anyway. And Sam is just so tired of lying. He doesn’t want to lie, not to Misha.

“That’s what we do,” he confesses at last. “The family business, the reason you think I’m Jason Bourne. We hunt supernatural entities — ghosts, demons, werewolves… the like.”

There’s a long pause before Misha blinks and slowly says, “You’re not joking.”

“No,” Sam agrees wearily. “I’m not.”

“So you guys are like… John Constantine in Hellblazer?”

Of course Misha would make a comic book reference, of course. Sam laughs. “Kinda, yeah.”

Misha huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “If I hadn’t just seen that thing back there, I would probably call bullshit.”

Sam snorts. “You? Mister Give-Me-The-Red-Pill-Too? C’mon, Mish, who are you kidding?”

Misha giggles, flopping against Sam. “Say,” he pipes up again after several moments of comfortable silence and hesitates before continuing. “Th— Momma. It… it wasn’t a dog, was it? I mean, no dog I’ve ever known…”

“No,” Sam confirms quietly. “It was a Skinwalker. It eats human hearts. Like werewolves, only in full canine form.”

“You knew?”

Sam stiffens. “When I saw the body, yes,” he answers evasively. “I killed it.”

This makes Misha sit up. “What?! When?!”

Sam ducks his head. “Erm… when I went to get you your coconut water. I lied about getting lost. I saw it in the park, and I was worried it’d come after you next, so I killed it.”

“And you’re sure...?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure.”

“So you uh… killed a monster, bought me drinks and then ate fish tacos with me on the way home?”

Sam chuckles wryly. “Pretty much. A day in the life of a hunter.”

Misha shakes his head, incredulous. “Wow. You’re one scary ninja, Sam.” He grins, squeezing broad shoulders. “Have I told you lately you’re the coolest person in the world? My hero~”

Sam snorts again. “Mish…”

“C’mon, Sam, now that you’ve admitted you’re in some secret society— aren’t hunters some sort of secret society?”

Giving it some thought, Sam shrugs and agrees, “I guess you could put it that way.”

“So you can induct me?” Misha asks excitedly.

“NO.” The horror.

“Saaammm~”

“NO.”

“You can train me!”

“After what just happened, you st—”

“Now that I know what’s really out there, how can I do nothing?!” Misha cries theatrically.

He sighs, suddenly exhausted, running a hand through his hair. “Look, Mish, I ditched my family and came here to get away from all that, to be safe. That’s why I didn’t want you guys to come here. All my life, I’ve been running from or after monsters, and yeah, it saves lives, yeah, it makes the world maybe a fraction safer every time we kill a monster that’s been preying on people. But it’s dangerous, often fatal.” 

He takes Misha’s hands. “I keep looking at all these people who didn’t make it, who didn’t know what we know or just didn’t run or react fast enough, and I wonder when it’ll be our turn, if maybe Dad and Dean won’t come back this time. It’s not cool, Mish, it really isn’t. And I don’t want that for me or you or Jess, don’t want anyone to have to wonder everyday if we’ll make it back alive. My heart nearly stopped when that ghost picked you up earlier, and I don’t want that to be our daily lives, Mish. I can’t imagine life without you.” He runs his fingertips lightly over the purpling bruises on Misha’s neck, and the other winces. “You okay?”

Misha nods, leaning into him. “Kinda bruised, but I’ll live. And I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… glamorize it, I guess.”

Sam shakes his head. “It’s okay. Want me to drive? Some tea?”

“I’ll manage, and my tea is better. C’mon, get Alex. Let’s head back.”

~*~

It’s half-past midnight.

Jess is still at the party. Vicki went home yesterday night because her Friday class was cancelled. Misha fell asleep beside Sam, who is still researching the house on his laptop. As it turns out, the ghost they saw was a man named Lewis Harrison. He ate people and served them to his family and friends. When his daughter, Elise, found out that the first person he’d eaten was her mother, she murdered him in a fit of rage. Lewis was cremated and Elise institutionalized for therapy, but she took her own life several years later. That leaves the house itself or, more likely, the music box in the basement as the object Lewis is bound to. Elise had been holding it in the newspaper photo. It had probably been a gift from her father, and she’d left it behind when packing.

Quietly, carefully, he gets up and pockets Misha’s keys from the nightstand. He glances at his phone as he picks it up and thinks to call Dean or Dad, but squares his shoulders and resolutely slips it into his other pocket. They’re the ones who told him to stay out. Besides, they’re probably too far away anyway. He’ll have to make a stop for lighter fuel.

“You’re going after the ghost, aren’t you?” Misha asks quietly as he moves towards the door.

He freezes. “Go back to sleep, Mish.”

His best friend sits up, rubbing his eyes. “No, I’m going with you.”

He turns. “Hell no, Mish. Didn’t you hear what I said earlier?”

“Loud and clear.” Misha pulls on a jacket and looks up at him, challenging. “So tell me why you’re going back there. I thought you wanted to wash your hands of this.”

“And what, let it kill the next group of idiot Halloween thrill-seekers?” Sam counters drily, bitchface in full force.

Misha winces. “Ouch.”

Sam sighs again, taking Misha by the shoulders. “Stay here, Mish, please? It’d be easier if I didn’t have to worry about you while I’m fighting that thing.”

“Well, I won’t let you do this alone,” Misha insists stubbornly. He covers Sam’s hands with his own. “I’ll stay in the car, okay?” he promises, relenting at the anxiety in olive eyes. “It’s my car. At least let me drive.”

“Okay.” Sam drops his forehead to Misha’s. “Okay.” In the car, he can handle. “Come on then. Let’s go.”

~*~

Misha glances at the clock again. It’s been twenty-six minutes and forty-one seconds since Sam went in, armed with the iron rod, a flashlight, a bag of rock salt, the lighter fuel, and a lighter. It’s just torching one music box, Sam said; that’s all he has to do to vanquish the vengeful spirit. The only reason it could be taking so long is if he’s fighting the ghost, and it’s not going well. He fidgets, tapping his foot and scratching at the bruises on his neck. Twenty-seven minutes and nineteen seconds. Sam made him promise to stay in the car. Twenty-eight minutes and three seconds. To just drive off if he’s not back in half an hour. Twenty-nine minutes and thirty-two seconds. No. _No._ The hell he’s driving off without Sam. He doesn’t know what he’d do without Sam. He grabs the two remaining bags of salt and crawls through the hole in the fence.

The front door is ajar, and he steps in quietly. The tinkling of the music box echoes through the house, carried on the cold wind. There’s the sound of struggling further in. Down. It’s coming from the basement. He quickens his step, tearing open the bag of salt. The ghost is probably occupied with Sam, and he prays fervently he’s not too late as he runs down the stairs.

When he arrives, Sam is lying on the floor, struggling with the ghost to keep it from clawing vital body parts out, all the items he brought along scattered across the floor.

“Sam!!” He throws a handful of salt at the ghost, who vanishes.

Sam sits up, eyes widening as they focus behind him. “Misha, look out!!”

“Look how sweet they are, Elise,” the ghost coos, grabbing Misha by the back of his neck. “They came back for us.”

Misha tosses a handful of salt over his shoulder and nearly falls as the ghost releases him. Sam dives for the bottle of lighter fluid, but he’s thrown against the wall as the ghost reappears. Misha catches sight of the open music box on the chair and runs to grab it, but as soon as his fingers close around it, he’s thrown against the opposite wall. The wood cracks behind him as the air is knocked from his lungs — he’ll probably have bruises on his back, too. If they survive.

“Misha!!”

The ghost advances on him, but then Sam is attacking it with the iron rod again, discreetly tossing him the bottle of butane. He scrambles to open it as Sam keeps the ghost distracted and drenches the music box with it before searching frantically around for the lighter as the ghost pins Sam to the floor again with its hands around Sam’s throat. Misha finally spots it on the floor near the shelf and pushes himself off from the wall to make a dive for it, tosses the music box carelessly to the floor as he reaches it and sets it on fire without looking back.

The ghost screams, and Misha turns in time to see it vanish in a burst of flames. He can only pray it’s gone for good as he scurries to Sam’s side.

“Sam!”

Sam’s not moving.

“Sam?”

There’s no response.

 _Oh God. No. No, no, no._ He’s not breathing.

Sam’s not breathing.

There are bruises on his neck just like Misha’s, and he’s not breathing.

Misha thumps Sam on the chest in a panic, blows air into his mouth. “C’mon, Sam, talk to me. Wake up!” He tries again, eyes stinging. “C’mon, Sam!” _No, no, no…_ If only he’d lit that stupid music box up a few seconds sooner! He starts proper CPR, desperate. “You can’t leave me, Sam! You promised I’d always have you.” He blows another breath into Sam’s mouth, straddling Sam’s torso to get a better angle for the chest compressions. “Don’t lie to me, Sam. Don’t you fucking lie to me,” he murmurs pleadingly against soft lips, and then suddenly, Sam’s coughing as he starts breathing normally again, and his hands come to rest on Misha’s waist.

“Who’s the liar now?” Sam retorts hoarsely. “You promised you’d stay in the car.”

“You’d have _died_ if I’d stayed in the fucking car!!” Misha screams. “Jesus Christ, Sam! You think you’re the only one who’s worried, who’s scared as fuck someone you love won’t make it back alive. My heart fucking stopped when I came down here and saw him trying to kill you and—”

Sam pulls him into a tight hug, and Misha presses their lips together.

It takes only a fraction of a second for him to realize his mistake, but then Sam is kissing back, one big hand coming up to bury itself in his hair, so he can’t pull away. He moans into the kiss as blood rushes southward, powerless to resist the fantasy he’s held onto for so long. Fuck, but this is the world’s worst Halloween tradition, and he doesn’t think he can take another round of pretending this never happened, pretending he isn’t hard as nails where his cock is pressed up against Sam’s perfect abs, and the thought of them dripping from the shower has him leaking in his pants. Sam’s got to know; he’s _got_ to; it’s too fucking obvious, and Misha is so fucking close from just the kiss and the mere memory of Sam’s naked body, it’s pathetic. And he can’t even blame pent-up sexual frustration, because that time with Tom hasn’t taken the edge off in the least. Then Sam squeezes his ass with his free hand, and Misha’s hips jerk as he comes, crying out into the kiss as he sees stars. God fucking damn it; he needs to stop crying, this needs to never, never fucking end, and if Sam says they can’t do this to Jess now, he’s going to fucking _lose it,_ but he can’t ever let Sam know. _Fucking hell._

“I’m sorry,” Sam murmurs into his ear, holding him tightly when they break off, and he buries his face in Sam’s shoulder, sobbing helplessly.

_God, don’t say it. Don’t fucking say it, Sam. Just… Just let me pretend for a few more minutes, Jesus Christ._

Sam takes a deep breath and huffs a wry chuckle. “God, I’ve been such an idiot.” He slaps a hand over his eyes. “All this time, wondering why it never felt quite right between Jess and me, and the answer was always staring me right in the face. God, I’m so sorry, Mish.” He lifts Misha’s face so he can wipe the streams of tears away with his thumbs. He meets bloodshot blue eyes with a hopeful smile. “I’ve kept you waiting for a long time, haven’t I?”

And it takes too long, maybe whole minutes, for the words to sink in, for Misha to realize that no, they’re not going back to being just friends, and he doesn’t have to fucking pretend anymore. But then they do, and he just kisses Sam again, because the tide of emotion has drowned out every last witty comeback he could have thought of, and all he can do is cling to Sam like he’ll never let go.

He’ll _never_ let go.

Sam laughs, kisses back, rolls them over so he has Misha lying beneath him, and presses his forehead to Misha’s when they break off for air. He takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. “Come on. Let’s grab our stuff and get out of here.”

Misha nods and lets Sam pull him to his feet, and it occurs to him belatedly, as they’re climbing the rickety wooden staircase hand-in-hand, that the house could have burned down earlier, and they wouldn’t have noticed. Fortunately, they were saved by bad plumbing and worse ventilation that made the floorboards too damp to properly catch fire. The flames also burnt out faster than the butane could evaporate. 

They’re packing the stuff they left in the room upstairs when Misha finally works up the courage to ask the question that’s been weighing on his mind.

“What about Jess?” he hazards, and he just about manages to keep his tone casual, to pretend it’s not as big a deal as it is.

Sam stops, sighing. “I—I’ll talk to her. As soon as we get back. Or in the morning. Probably in the morning.”

Misha doesn’t know whether to be glad or apprehensive. As much as he loves Sam, he also adores Jess. She’s a great girl, and he really doesn’t want to see her hurt, especially on his account. “And tell her what?”

Pausing to think for several moments, Sam runs a hand through his hair. “The truth, I guess,” he decides, picking everything up.

And now Misha has to hear this, because the last thing he wants is for Sam to exacerbate things by presenting it wrong. “Which is?” he presses, and Sam ducks his head, embarrassed.

“That I’ve been fucking stupid, and I didn’t realize I was in love with you even when she first asked me out? That I miss you and can’t stop thinking about you even when I’m with her, and it somehow never occurred to me that it wasn’t just because you’re my best friend? That I’ve lied without batting an eye about my family every time she’s asked, but when it comes to you, the best I can manage is ‘I don’t want to talk about it’? That I was afraid we were moving too fast because every time we got close, I just kept getting this niggling feeling that it’s not right, but I kiss you twice, and all I can think about is how badly I want to make love to you every single night for the rest of my life?”

Misha groans, “Don’t say that last part,” and Sam concurs. Jess doesn’t need to hear that. And Dean would never stop teasing him for ‘saying all that girly stuff.’ That is, he amends bitterly, if Dean ever decides they can still be brothers even if he’s not championing the family mission anymore.

As they walk down the stairs together, Misha adds, “It’s going to be awkward sharing a room after this, though.”

“Yeah,” he agrees as they exit the front door. “But we have to change rooms next quarter in any case, so it’ll only be a few more weeks.” And with finals coming around, they’re probably going to spend more time studying in the library than being awkward in their quad anyway.

They reach the hole in the fence, and Misha crawls through first, so Sam can pass him individual bags and bundles; they can’t fit everything through the gap at once. When they’ve finally loaded everything in the trunk, Misha takes a final look at the house.

“Sam, where do ghosts go after we burn their remains? Or do they just disappear?”

Sam closes the trunk, pensive. “I don’t know, Mish. There are so many theories, and I haven’t had the occasion to find out first hand.”

Misha grabs his wrists and pulls him in for a kiss. “Stay ignorant,” Misha insists fiercely as long arms loop around his waist. “Don’t you go anywhere without me, young man.”

Sam laughs, rubbing their noses together. “Change your major, so we can take the same classes.”

“Hmph. How about you change yours instead?” He shoves playfully at Sam and gets into the car.

Sam grins, circling around to the passenger side. “Nuh-uh. Guess we’ll have to compromise.”

~*~

By the time they make it back, Jess is sound asleep in her bed. Sam hesitates, then kisses Misha on the cheek and bids him goodnight; Misha just squeezes his hand reassuringly. They go to their beds, but Sam can’t stop thinking about how best to break the news to Jess in the morning. He likes her, loves her even, but not the way he loves Misha, not the way he’d want for the rest of his life.

He wakes after a night of restless sleep to find Jess and Misha already up.

 _Damn,_ but this has gone on long enough as it is, and it’s unfair to both Jess and Misha.

When he gets downstairs, Misha and Jess are in the dining area eating breakfast with Nancy, Maya and Aaron. Maya is asking about the haunted house trip, and Misha is mostly telling the truth: a mildly embellished ghost story. Of course, everyone thinks he’s making it up, and they clap cheerfully as Misha gushes, “And here comes my hero!” when Sam walks in.

He chuckles awkwardly. “What have you been telling them this time?”

“Hey baby,” Jess greets. “Misha was just telling us all about you rescuing him from the ghost by fencing with an iron rod.”

Okay, a significantly embellished ghost story.

“He lies. I don’t do anything so graceful as fence.” He pours himself some Lucky Charms and joins them at the table. “I just about manage to bludgeon my target with a stick.”

Nancy chuckles. “The pagan party we went to last night was pretty cool, though. They had a blessing ritual to ward off evil for Samhain too. Also, the theme was Constellations, so everyone came as some kind of star, which for some reason was commonly understood as mostly naked. You should have come with us, Sam.” She waggles her eyebrows.

Misha silently gives her the evil eye over his bowl of cereal, but says nothing as Sam blushes.

“Err, I wouldn’t have dressed up. And even if I did, I’d go as Leo in a full-body lion suit.”

Aaron snorts. “Come on, man. Wouldn’t going in full hunter’s garb as Orion be way cooler?”

Jess laughs. “You would think so.”

Aaron is a LARPer, the kind that has his own guild and saves all his disposable income up to go for conventions. “Hey,” he protests. “You can’t tell me that isn’t cooler than going as Libra in glittery Speedos armed with a pair of scales.”

“That really depends on who’s wearing the Speedos,” Nancy ripostes with a pointed look in his direction, and Maya, Jess and Misha make a show of wincing.

“Ooh, burn~”

“Bah.” Aaron stands with a huff and takes his bowl to the kitchen to rinse it. “Volgin is better company than you.”

“Hey,” Misha calls after him. “ _Electric hand job._ ”

Sam shakes his head. “Don’t diss the Volgin handshake, man.”

Aaron flips the bird at them on his way back up the stairs to finish his game. Nancy and Maya take off, laughing, leaving Jess, Misha and Sam alone in the room. A kind of awkward silence settles over them as they eat their breakfast, with Misha occasionally glancing up at them in turn. Finally, Sam finishes his cereal, and his convenient excuse not to talk with it.

“Uh… Jess.” He turns to her, ducking his head. “We um… We need to talk.”

“Hm? Oh.” She sets her spoon down slowly, a look of resignation crossing her face. There’s a long pause, then: “We’re breaking up, aren’t we?”

And he wants to ask how she knows, if it was always obvious or if she saw him kiss Misha goodnight, but none of that seems appropriate right now. _Nothing_ really seems appropriate right now, so he just nods. “I’m sorry.”

She glances up at Misha, turns to him, then looks back down into her empty bowl and sighs. “I can’t say I didn’t see it coming. It tends to feel like I’m the third wheel here. I was wondering when you’d realize.”

“I— That’s not— I do really like you, Jess. It’s not you, I swear. It’s just…” He fiddles with his spoon. “Now that it’s kinda hit me in the face, I realize I’ve always been in love with Misha.” He sighs. “I’m sorry, Jess. I’ve been an idiot. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I guess I just never thought about him that way before, and—”

“No.” She shakes her head. “I get it. Sometimes, when you’re so used to looking at things one way, it’s really hard to see them differently. I’m guessing if Misha were a girl, I never would have stood a chance, huh?” She blinks, chuckling wryly. “You know, we’ve even started taking bets, my friends and I, on when you’d finally come out of the proverbial closet. I mean, we’ve been together for almost a year now, and you haven’t so much as tried to make out with me.”

Sam blushes, but says nothing. Misha’s knee bumps his lightly under the table, and he glances up. Misha looks upset, and Jess is wiping the corners of her eyes with a fingertip.

“I can’t say I’m not sad, though. I guess I always held out a little hope that things would work out between us.”

“I’m sorry, Jess,” Misha blurts then, wringing his hands. “I didn’t— we’ve never— I—I wish it didn’t have to be like this.”

“I know.” Jess smiles wistfully. “Hey.” She smacks them on the shoulder. “I still love you guys, okay? You can be my gay best friends. Just… just give me some time.”

Oh. Oh wow. This is more than Sam deserves; he knows it. “God, Jess, I’m so sorry, okay? You’re amazing, and I was so happy when you asked me out. And I love spending time with you, I do. It’s just…” He flails helplessly.

“Misha?” Jess supplies. “Yeah. Believe me, I get it. Lindsay’s gonna say ‘I told you so,’ but she’ll owe me a hundred, so I still win, right?”

“W—what did you bet?” Sam asks weakly.

“This year.” She giggles. “I mean, have you seen the two of you together? You act like an old married couple — all love and no sex, too.” Waggling her eyebrows, she adds, “You gonna keep him waiting, too?”

Sam reddens further, but Misha shakes his head, grinning. “Imma tie him down and have my wicked way with him.”

“Ooh, kinky~”

Silence falls, and after several moments of pushing cereal crumbs around his bowl, Sam begins, “Jess, I—”

“I’ll be fine, Sam,” she interrupts, standing. “Really.”

Misha stands as well. “Thank you.”

She nods, takes her bowl with her to the kitchen to wash it, then heads back up the stairs.

Misha sighs, moving to his side. “I still feel awful. She’s such a great person.”

“Too good for me,” he agrees, pulling Misha to him. “All these wonderful people in my life. What did I ever do right?”

“Don’t be silly,” Misha chides, hugging him and ruffling his hair. “What’s not to love about you?”

~*~

Pigott Theater is dark but for the lights on stage. The second act has just begun, and the stage has been decorated to look like a beautiful glade in the woods. It is the opening night of the TAPS rendition of Midsummer Night’s Dream, and Misha has been cast as Oberon, much to his glee. Sam, of course, came early to get a good seat. Vicki is with him, so they’re seated in the front row, waiting for Misha’s turn on stage. He enters, resplendent in a bright blue and green skin-tight costume, complete with a crown and fairy wings. From the other side comes Titania, in a green dress, played by a regal-looking redhead. They are each followed by an entourage of fairies.

“Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania,” Oberon says, tone clearly miffed.

“What, jealous Oberon!” Titania cries, displeased to see him. “Fairies, skip hence: I have forsworn his bed and company.”

Their voices project clearly throughout the theater, and Misha is using a slightly deeper voice today, probably to sound more kingly. She turns to leave, and he steps forward, closer to the audience.

“Tarry, rash wanton: am I not thy lord?”

She whirls around to respond, and the play continues. This is not the first of Misha’s performances he’s seen, but he’s always struck by how talented his boyfriend is, how completely Misha seems to slip into his character. Just last quarter, he starred in someone’s senior project as a character with multiple personalities, and it was magnificent how distinct each persona was from the other. Multiple TAPS professors have asked him to consider changing his major, and he often gets the roles he auditions for. Misha doesn’t want to study acting, though.

“I wouldn’t enjoy it if it started being about grades,” he reasons, and Sam doesn’t think what Misha has is something that can be taught. Misha says he’s probably biased, but he should be, so that’s okay.

About two hours later, as the audience clears out, Misha, still in costume, wings fluttering slightly behind him, prances over to them. “Vicki! Sam!”

“Great job, Mish!” Vicki stands to give him a hug. “The fae becomes you.”

“Thank you!” Misha giggles gleefully and moves over to straddle Sam’s thighs on the seat. “And you? Did you enjoy it?”

“Certainly, my lord.” Sam pulls him down for a kiss. “Mm, no wonder the queen wouldn’t give you her page. Would you not have tied the poor boy down and corrupted him with your wicked ways?”

Misha grins, lascivious. “Only if he looks like you.”

Sam scowls, pinching Misha lightly in the sides. “He only has to look like me?”

Still giggling, Misha swats his hands away and leans in to whisper, “Well, his ass would have to be as tight as yours too.”

Sam reddens, but Vicki smacks Misha on the ass before he can respond.

“Go change and stop overcompensating for the last few years, you horny fuckers.”

Misha sticks his tongue out at her, but scampers off to do just that. When he runs back out to join them for the walk back, he’s in the T-shirt he made at last week’s Tie-Dye Night and a pair of well-worn jeans.

“Say,” he begins excitedly, still bubbly from the energy of the show. “You’re joining us at the library the Sunday before finals week, right?”

Vicki’s eyes glint. “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

“Sure I’ll be at the library.” Sam laughs. “Working. I’ll probably be the one escorting you out.”

“Killjoy,” Misha complains, smacking him on the shoulder. “We bring you study snacks!”

“I’ll grope you as you walk past,” Sam concedes with a grin.

“Naughty~” Misha waggles his eyebrows. “You want me to streak with a boner?”

“That would be a sensation,” Vicki chimes in.

“No, I want you up against the bookshelves, trying to keep it down while I give you detention,” he ripostes with a wink, and Misha bites his lip and shifts his gait a little before hurriedly changing the subject.

“What are you guys doing for Christmas break?”

“Well, I’m going home as always,” Vicki replies. “You guys should come visit. My family has been saying they haven’t seen you in a while, Mish.”

“Yeah.” He used to visit all the time when they were in high school together. “Maybe we’ll drive up for a few days. Sam?”

“Sure.” Sam shrugs. “I’m thinking of taking on some seasonal shifts here, so I’ve been looking at renting a room nearby. I’ve found one that seems nice and relatively affordable, so I’ll probably take it.”

Misha’s expression grows pensive, and Sam suddenly remembers that Misha usually goes home for Christmas too… only he can’t anymore. And while Sam doesn’t have any good memories of Christmas, he’s sure it’s always been a happy time of festive family reunions for Misha. He takes Misha’s hand.

“What do you want to do?”

Misha squeezes his hand and smiles. “My boss, Jean, is taking his family back to France for Christmas. Problem is, they have two dogs, a Great Pyrenees and a Papillon that they can’t take with them. They heard I don’t have any plans for Christmas, so he asked if I’d like to stay in their guest room during Winter Break and take care of Adolphe and Remy for them. Of course, I asked if my boyfriend could stay too, and Mireille said they’d like to meet you first. Plus, the dogs will have to get to know you beforehand too.” Misha stops. “I mean, you don’t have to or anything, but it sounds nice. We could take the dogs running along the Bay Trail, maybe drive up to the beach, or…”

Sam wraps an arm around Misha’s waist and pulls him into his side. “Guess that solves the lodging problem. I love dogs. When do we go meet them?”

Misha grins up excitedly. “This weekend for dinner?”

“Works for me,” he agrees, squeezing Misha to him briefly.

As if he’d let Misha spend the holiday alone.

~*~

The dogs come running up to the fence to greet them as soon as Misha turns into the driveway, and Sam leans over to give Adolphe a good rub as soon as he gets out of the car. Poor Remy can’t quite reach, but Misha waves at him and promises to play with him later.

“Adolphe, Remy, sit,” Sam instructs, and they do so obediently, Remy sitting between Adolphe’s front paws. It’s adorable.

Remy is about a quarter of Adolphe’s size, sable and white. Adolphe is completely white and very fluffy, standing an impressive thirty-eight inches tall.

The Marcellins have a two-storey red brick house, with a slate grey roof and white wooden window frames and doors. There’s a wooden patio out front, shaded, with lights and ceiling fans. There’s a porch swing on one end and some deck chairs around a coffee table on the other, all in wood. The lawn beside the driveway is enclosed with a white picket fence to keep the dogs in, and an oak tree shades a corner of it. Christmas lights and wreaths are up on the door and roof, and despite this being his fifth visit, Sam is still struck by what a lovely home it is.

Jean and Mireille come out to meet them, their children, Lucille and Sylvain, close behind. All four have pale blond hair and light blue eyes, but Jean is the only one with a tan. As the kids play with each other, he hands Misha the keys.

“Great timing, Misha, Sam,” he greets in mildly accented English, with a nod to them both. “The taxi should be here soon. We bought a new bag of dog food, so it should last the month. You might have to mow the lawn later this month, so the lawn mower is in the garage. Be sure to lock up and arm security at night and when you leave, but otherwise, make yourselves at home.” He turns to his wife. “Anything, chérie?”

“Hm… There’s a pineapple-glazed ham loin in the freezer that you should defrost and bake for Christmas dinner. You know where the guest room and the washer and dryer are. Help yourselves to anything perishable in the fridge and make yourselves comfortable. Just keep the house clean, yes?”

Sam smiles. “Of course.”

“Don’t worry,” Misha reassures her with a grin. “We like the place clean, too.”

Just then, the cab pulls up.

“Ah, there it is.”

Misha and Sam help Jean load the luggage into the cab as Mireille ushers the kids in.

“Bon voyage!” Misha calls just before they close the doors and drive off, waving at them cheerfully.

Sam has an arm around Misha’s waist, and he steers his boyfriend back to the car to get their things. Armed with their bags, they head into the house. “Such a lovely house, all to ourselves for three weeks,” Sam murmurs, looking around.

The interior is all wooden panels and stucco walls, terracotta tiles in the kitchens and bathrooms, white lace curtains, and tan upholstery. Jean made all the wooden furniture himself, and that reminds Sam of Misha’s old home. There’s a Christmas tree in a corner of the living room, covered in silver and gold decorations and colorful twinkling lights, and four red stockings hanging off the nearby windowsill. It’s Christmas like he’s never had it, and Sam can’t help thinking of Dean, wondering if he’ll spend this Christmas hunting as well. He smiles wistfully. At any rate, it’s better than sitting around in a motel somewhere, waiting for Dad to not show up again.

Misha comes over to rest his head on Sam’s shoulder after locking the doors and arming security. “It’d be nice to have our own house like this someday, hm? With two dogs of our own?”

Sam heads for the guest room, smiling. “I thought you wanted to live in the White House, President Collins.” He sets their bags down, turning. “Ah, no, they’d have to use your real name. Dmitri Krushnic for President?”

“Shut up.” Misha steps into his waiting arms, chuckling. “I’ll have to check if we can have dogs in the White House.”

“Mm.” Sam lifts Misha up. The queen bed looks inviting, and as long as they wash the sheets, no one would be the wiser. They haven’t had a room to themselves since they got together. It seems inappropriate to do anything in the quad they share with Jess, so they haven’t done much besides cuddle in the common areas and make out in Misha’s car. He heard that Jess and Darius started dating a few weeks ago, and Misha has been threatening Darius with death, dismemberment and eternal dishonor if he doesn’t treat her well.

“Or I could go become a famous actor, you can be a famous lawyer, and we can live in Beverly Hills with all the other famous people, in a house just like this, maybe just single storey with a wine cellar.”

“That sounds a lot more likely,” Sam murmurs, laying Misha down on the red and tan covers and lying down beside him. After all, only one person can be President, but tons of people can be famous actors at the same time.

Misha snuggles close and tilts his head for a kiss. “Would you like that better than being First Gentleman?”

Sam snorts, running his hands up Misha’s body. “I’d be happy with a log cabin you built in the mountains, Mish, but yeah, this would be awesome.” He unzips Misha’s hoodie, then moves on to his jeans. “A nice house, full of your nice handmade furniture in a nice neighborhood, two nice dogs and the very nice you.”

“Are you seducing me, Sam?” Misha runs his fingers through Sam’s hair. “Because ‘nice’ isn’t a very sexy word.”

“It’s working, though,” Sam ripostes, tugging clothes off.

“Only because I’ve been waiting forever, and you keep teasing.” Misha pouts, working on Sam’s clothes.

They’d been studying yesterday for their last final, reclined on opposite ends of the same couch in the common room, when Sam suddenly slid his foot between Misha’s legs under the pillow he’d been using as a makeshift desk and proceeded to give him a discreet foot job, without so much as looking up from his law book. Misha couldn’t make any sound or move away without the other people in the room noticing, couldn’t thrust into Sam’s foot without risking his laptop and books falling all over the floor, and couldn’t give Sam a taste of his own medicine because the damnable giant had much longer legs. Worst of all, he couldn’t study for that stupid final as his briefs kept getting tighter and wetter while Sam kept up his slow, barely-there teasing — every drag of toes keeping him hard and leaking, but never quite enough to come.

And then the fucker had the gall to just walk away with a quick peck to his cheek, leaving him to will his erection away in the common room until he could go kick Sam’s ass. But when he got back to their room, Jess was in, so all he could do was smack Sam and glower before going to bed aching, unproductive and unsatisfied.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting Jess to get back so soon. And then you just went to bed. I was hoping you’d go back out. I’d have followed you to the bathroom,” Sam murmurs, mouthing his way down Misha’s neck to a grumble. “And I’d have done this.” A warm hand cups his balls, feels them up and rubs behind them with a single finger.

“Jesus fuck.” Misha throws his head back, hands fisting and toes curling in the sheets. He’d have come in minutes.

“Let me make it up to you, Mish.” Sam flicks at a nipple with his tongue. “Anything you want.”

And Misha can think of so many things, so many things he wants to do or try with Sam, and God, he needs, he _needs._ But Sam’s never done this before, so maybe… He shifts, so he’s lying atop Sam, savoring the feel of bare skin on skin at last. “Anything?” he echoes with a grin, pushing Sam’s legs apart with his own.

“Anything,” Sam agrees, running his hands up and down Misha’s body and kissing him again.

Misha smiles into the kiss, breaks off to mouth his way down Sam’s perfect, perfect body as he’s been fantasizing for so long, rakes his fingers down Sam’s back as his lover arches up into the contact. He nips his way back up when he reaches the turn of Sam’s hip, leaving light red marks on tanned skin, and stops to swirl his tongue around a nipple to sighs of pleasure. Sam squeezes his ass, and their cocks rub against each other. He whimpers, slides down to pepper Sam’s impressive length with kisses, and Sam does that teasing drag with his toes again. Cupping Sam’s balls with a hand, he rubs a finger into his lover’s perineum like Sam had done to him earlier, and Sam moans, precum beading at the tip. He purses his lips around the tip and sucks, thumbing the ridge below and pressing his tongue into the slit, and Sam throws his head back, keening with pleasure.

“Turn over?”

Sam obliges as he fetches the lube from his bag, and he fits their bodies together, pressing his cock into the crease of Sam’s ass. Sam gasps in surprise, but rocks back into him, and it’s almost worth the wait. Almost.

“Ah, Misha,” Sam moans, turning for a kiss, and Misha wraps his arms around Sam tightly.

“Inside,” he mumbles, nibbling on the shell of Sam’s ear. “I want—”

“I’ve wanted to know since you mentioned it, since you sat on my lap and got so hard from just this.”

“I fantasized about it often. You touched me just like I imagined, Sam. I came so hard I saw stars.”

Sam’s hands cover his own and squeeze. “Show me, Mish. I keep thinking — would you do it to me in a house just like this? Every night? Three times a week? How would it feel if you came inside me? Hot? Wet? Intense?”

Misha groans, covering his hand in lube, and presses a finger in. Sam tenses, and he murmurs, “Relax, Sam,” with a kiss to the back of the neck. Sam does, and he searches deeper. In truth, he’d like Sam inside him, but there’s something thrilling about the novelty, something exciting in Sam’s surprised cry of pleasure when he finds it. Slowly, he opens Sam up, slicking the way generously and letting his fingers brush over that spot every so often, until Sam’s soft grunts of discomfort turn into needy little whimpers. “Relax, baby,” he reminds Sam again as he presses in carefully, and “God, I love you,” he says fiercely as Sam lets go with effort, and he whimpers as he slides in because Sam is so tight, tighter than he’d imagined. He holds still, letting Sam adjust. “Would you build it with me? Our house full of handmade furniture and throws?”

“I’d ruin it,” Sam replies with a laugh. “I can’t do woodwork, knit or sew.”

“I can teach you. Or you could just do the heavy lifting while I work.” Misha giggles breathlessly, running his hands appreciatively over Sam’s muscular form. “Put all these babies to good use.”

“Mm,” Sam agrees, turning for another kiss. “Or grope you as you work.” Sam reaches back to squeeze his ass and slide his hand down Misha’s thigh, pulling his knee up. “Make our mark on every surface, hide it under the plaster and paint, so it’ll be just our secret.”

“Mmngh, worth the distraction.” Misha shifts experimentally, and when Sam doesn’t show any sign of pain, begins thrusting shallowly, pulling out and sliding back in a little more each time. “You know, I imagine we’d have a bed just like this. And some nights, you’d carry me to it, spread me open on soft flannel sheets, and put this,” he wraps his hand around Sam’s erection and strokes, “inside me, and it’d feel so full, so much like this.”

Sam cries out, thrusting into his hand and rocking back into him, desperate for more of both.

“I’d ride you,” he continues, tightening his grip on Sam’s cock to a wanton moan. “Hard.” He groans, both at the thought and the way Sam clenches around him as he thrusts harder, faster. “And you’d tug on my balls just like this.” He demonstrates gently, and Sam’s back arches with a loud keen of pleasure that he echoes. “God, I’d come so hard if you did that when I was close. Ah, Sam.” He presses his forehead into the back of Sam’s neck, licks up the bead of sweat there. “You’d make me lick the come off you, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes. God, yes.”

“Just like the maple syrup I’m going to drizzle all over the pancakes I’m eating off you for breakfast?”

Sam’s hips snap forward into his hand. “Fuck, Mish.”

He moans; he’s close, and the thought of the next… _Oh._ “If—if you buttered my hole a—and licked it clean, I—I’d come untouched. Ahn, Sam. _Sam._ Would you? In a bedroom just like this?”

“F—fucking hell, Mish. Take me home,” Sam groans, reaching back to caress his entrance, and Misha screams as the pleasure explodes through him in colored lights.

Distantly, he hears Sam’s sharp cry as his lover spills as well, and God, this is what every night should be like for the rest of his life — making love to Sam in their bed. Sam shifts away, then turns to fold Misha in his arms, and Misha decides he’d even take just cuddling. “Oh Sam,” he sighs as they kiss, legs intertwined.

“Were you serious about breakfast tomorrow?”

Misha grins. “Hell yeah. I’ll even make fresh ginger tea, and we can find creative uses for the extra ginger.”

“Good.” Sam makes himself comfortable and closes his eyes. “Now let’s sleep, so it’ll be time for breakfast sooner.”

Misha snorts, settling in. “Good night, you silly thing.”

“Night, baby,” Sam replies with a final kiss to his forehead, and all right, Misha can forgive the teasing if this is the result.

Sam said earlier that he doesn’t have any good memories of Christmas. This one, Misha decides, is going to be awesome. They’re going to make some good memories.


	4. I Think I Wanna Marry You

As nice as it is living in a co-op, changing rooms every quarter is a tiring affair. Vicki concurs, so they go looking for an apartment. Conveniently, one of Jasper’s tenants is moving to another state, and Jasper offers to let them rent the three-bedroom for about half the usual price, which puts it just within their price range. They’re surprised when Jess offers to take the third room, so they can split the rent four ways. Even though she and Misha have switched places in Sam’s life pretty comfortably, it still seems awkward and callous to be overtly affectionate with Misha in her presence. Still, she seems very happy with Darius, and she even recently suggested they go on a double date sometime, so maybe Sam’s overthinking things, and he needs to stop feeling guilty.

The new place is nice — far enough from campus that it’s quiet, but near enough that the commute is short. The four of them take turns cooking one meal a day, either breakfast or dinner, which they eat together. Sam and Misha share a room and a queen-sized bed, go for morning runs, and drive to and from campus together. Life is idyllic, perfect even, if ever that were possible, and Sam thinks if this is what the rest of his life will be like, he’s going to take Misha home to Massachusetts on graduation day and marry him.

He’s at his desk studying for his LSAT, which he plans to take in a few months, when Misha sits up in their bed. “Sam?”

“Hm?” he responds distractedly, scribbling thoughts in his notebook.

“Could you look over my résumé for me?”

He marks his page and turns to find Misha holding out his orange laptop. “Of course.” He takes it. The first page is a large photograph of Misha, and if looks were the only criterion, he’s sure they’d hire Misha sans audition. His boyfriend looks like a model in that photo, and Sam doesn’t think it’s only because he’s biased. Misha looks on expectantly as he scrolls down; it looks good — well organized and properly formatted. Then he gets to Special Skills.

Sam stifles a snort as he reads the first line and has to hold his breath as he reads the second and third, but by the time he hits the fifth line, he can’t rein in his laughter any longer, and has to set Misha’s laptop down on the table because he nearly dropped it. He’s laughing so hard he can’t breathe.

“Sam! You’re supposed to fix it! Not laugh at me!” Misha protests, but he doesn’t even manage to sound indignant.

“C’mon, Mish, acting on camera?” He snorts, dissolving into guffaws. “How is that ‘special’? Isn’t that what you do?”

“As opposed to stage, you neophyte,” Misha ripostes, smacking him on the arm.

“Okay, fine. Fine, but bicycle touring, Mish? What’s your excuse here? ‘Cause I’m pretty damned sure it’s just called cycling. And what the fuck is Tibetan throat singing?”

Misha demonstrates, and okay, so Sam has no idea when that will ever be relevant to any job outside the Tibetan monkhood, but fine, at least it’s legit. Whereas “You can barely remember how to dance Appalachian clogging!”

“So? It’s like riding a bicycle, Sam. I just need a refresher!”

“Yeah, well, you weren’t doing so well with that refresher on your birthday, so I wouldn’t list that. And speaking of riding a bike, I call bullshit on horseback riding. You cannot ride a fucking horse.”

“You doubt me? How could you doubt me?” Misha whines theatrically. “You’re not supposed to doubt me, Sam. Sure I can ride a horse.”

Sam scoffs. “Yeah? Where have you even seen a horse, Mish?”

“Not the point, and sure I can — it just has to be standing still!”

Sam roars with laughter, now rolling on the bed because his sides are aching. “That doesn’t fucking count!”

“Yes, it does! They never said the horse had to be moving! And I rode llamas when I was a kid. How different could it be?”

“Very, and so not the point!”

“Well, the kind of riding I’m really good at isn’t appropriate to list for this kind of job, okay?”

Sam grins, lying flat on his back as he catches his breath. “Mm,” he agrees, lifting Misha into his lap. “You could list female impersonation,” he points out, thinking of Sharon Carter. “Or needlework. And cooking! You could knit or cook on shows, right? In drag even. Also, you’ve got a great singing voice, and can’t you play the guitar?”

For a moment, Misha’s expression turns serious. “Huh. You _are_ a genius.”

Sam chuckles, lacing his fingers over the small of Misha’s back. “Silly Mish, _you_ are,” he declares fondly, pulling Misha down for a kiss. “You’re the most talented person I know, baby. You could just be yourself, and they’d be crazy not to take you.”

“Mm,” Misha giggles, hovering over him so they’re nose-to-nose. “Pity this isn’t a porn audition, though.” He bats his eyelashes, coquettish and a little rueful. “I’d have way more special skills to list if it were.”

“Ooh~” Sam waggles his eyebrows, playing along. “Such as?”

Blue eyes glint. “I can blow myself.”

Sam gapes. “No way.”

“Hmph.” Misha sits back, looking away, miffed. “I keep saying you’re not supposed to doubt me.”

“Then prove it,” Sam challenges, intrigued.

Misha immediately slides off his lap and drops his pants.

“Jesus Christ, Mish!” Alarmed, Sam lunges for the open door to slam it shut. “Public decency! Jess has friends over!”

Misha shrugs carelessly, discarding his shirt and underwear as well. “Exactly why they won’t be coming upstairs.”

“You don’t know that,” Sam points out reproachfully with a frown, but it’s short-lived because Misha sits down in his desk chair, spreads his legs and extends his hands in invitation.

“Little help?” he offers with a small smile. “I need to be hard for this to work.”

Sam takes his hands, laces their fingers and kneels between Misha’s knees without hesitation, and Misha’s breath hitches from just that. He rises to Sam’s lips as warm breath ghosts over his cock, and not for the first time, Sam wonders how he ever lived without this, without Misha.

Misha sighs as he mouths reverently at smooth skin, hips jerking as he traces feather-light circles up sweat-slick inner thighs, and Misha has to push him away with a groan when he licks off the drop of precum beading at the tip because “Fuck, Sam, it’ll be over before I can prove it if you keep doing that.”

Misha stands and stretches, and Sam can’t take his eyes off that lean and graceful form, can’t stop going over every single sweet spot he’s ever found in his mind as he stands and pulls Misha flush against him from behind, fits his clothed erection into the crease of Misha’s ass the way he knows always drives Misha crazy. And Misha moans, tilting his head back to bare his throat, rocking his hips back as Sam’s fingers skim every sensitive part of him.

“God, Sam,” he whines, twisting out of the embrace as Sam’s teeth scrape lightly over his collarbone. “C’mon, I thought you wanted to see.”

Holding Sam’s gaze, he links their hands and leads Sam along as he backs into the bed, dropping lightly onto his back when the backs of his knees meet the mattress. “Sam,” he murmurs, lifting his legs to rest his heels on Sam’s shoulders. “Sam,” as the other presses a kiss to the turn of his ankles. “Sam.” He crosses his feet behind the taller man’s neck and tugs, bending his knees, and Sam comes obligingly. Bracing himself with his arms under his back, he curls in on himself, folding his knees over Sam’s shoulder and taking his leaking cock into his mouth, and he keens around it from the sheer pleasure. He can’t even remember why he doesn’t do this more often as he swirls his tongue around the tip, and the intensity of the desire he sees in olive eyes makes it worth so much more.

“God,” Sam breathes, awed, riveted. “You like this…”

His muscles tremble from the strain as he nods. Sam holds him in place so he can relax, and he shifts his arms to prop his neck up instead.

“Wow. Just…” Sam shakes himself a little, as if he can’t believe his eyes. “Wow. If only you could see… Mish, so fucking beautiful like this.”

Then Sam ducks his head, swipes his tongue over Misha’s balls, and a whimper escapes as Misha’s hips jerk and his cock slides deeper into his mouth, and he sucks harder reflexively. He cries out as Sam sucks a mark into his perineum while breaching him with one finger. God, he’s going to come down his own throat like he hasn’t since he was in high school, and the doctors’ advice be damned — he should have tried this with some of his partners sooner. “Don’t stop, don’t stop,” Sam’s teasing now, swirling his tongue around the wiggling digit inside him, “Want to see you come like this, Mish,” and if Sam could possibly fuck him while he does this… _Ahahahn, Sam_ is pressing just his tongue in now, and he’s already holding back, leaking down his throat in a steady stream, wet as the last girl he was with.

“Christ, Mish.” Sam trails fierce kisses up his thigh to the side of his knees. “Do you want to? Or can we make this last?”

“I can’t,” he gasps, letting his head fall back to rest. “I can’t. You have no idea h—”

Sam nuzzles his thigh. “God… clench so hard, so tight, want to be inside you.”

 _YesyesYES,_ and he’s not sure this is going to work, but _man_ , he wants to try. “Do it, Sam,” he breathes, stretching out and rolling over. “Take me.”

Sam doesn’t wait, just shucks his clothes, grabs the lube and opens him up before sliding home, blanketing Misha’s body with his own, kissing him fiercely behind the ear and holding him tight. Misha reaches back, running his fingers through Sam’s hair. “Roll over,” he instructs. “Sit up,” and Sam obeys, lifting him so he’s sitting in Sam’s lap with his thighs parted.

Sam just holds him close, mumbles an indistinct string of declarations and promises that Misha doesn’t need to hear to understand, and all he says is “lie back” because sometimes, he can barely breathe from how much he loves Sam.

Again, the other acquiesces without delay, and Misha carefully, carefully curls in on himself again. _Oh._ Oh, this _is_ possible. _Good God._

He sucks on the tip, and Sam’s hips jerk slightly into his, cock rubbing against his prostate inside. _Fuck. Oh. OH._ He moans as he swallows around himself, Sam rocks into him again, and he sucks harder just as Sam jars his prostate again, and _ah, Sam, SAM!_

His vision whites out as pleasure sears through him like lightning.

He chokes a little, doesn’t quite manage to swallow all of it — it’s been so long. But then Sam is pulling him back for a kiss as he spills inside, and nothing matters but this. As sweet as it is desperate, as tender as it is intense, whether they’re fucking each other into the mattress or lying curled up together in bed, talking about everything and nothing at all, knowing that only he knows the whole truth about Sam. Making breakfast together; volunteering at JS on weekends; cycling to the nearby park to study over a picnic; sparring at All Star now that he’s finally convinced Sam to accompany him to self-defense class. _This._ It’s more than love, more than anything he can put a name to, and nothing’s changed since that first night — it still fills his heart to bursting, and he’s never been more content. This, he decides, is what he wants forever. No. _Sam,_ he amends; Sam is what he wants.

Forever.

~*~

Misha winds the colorful striped scarf around his neck and adjusts his wig and hat. He grins at the mirror. It’s perfect, and he can just ditch the wig and hat later.

“Saaammm~” he calls, bounding back up the stairs two steps at a time. “We’re late~ Come on.”

Sam steps out of the room in dark brown slacks and a tan plaid button-down. “Do I have to?”

Misha frowns, poking Sam on the nose. “Yes, but the least you could do is wear something that matches my outfit, even if you won’t put on a costume. It’s our first anniversary, Sam.”

Sam laughs and ducks his head. “You know I don’t own anything that colorful.”

“Figured you’d say that.” Misha prances into their room and takes a paper bag out of a drawer. “That’s why I made you a matching sweater for our anniversary gift!” he announces brightly, pressing the bag into Sam’s hands.

Tentatively, Sam opens it and is pleasantly surprised to find it’s not a sweater-shaped replica of Misha’s colorful striped scarf. It’s a deep olive green, trimmed with the same terracotta color of Misha’s coat, and it laces up at the wrists and collar. It’s actually an unexpectedly ordinary-looking sweater for a Misha original, if the last two he received are any indication. Misha looks at him expectantly, and he obligingly pulls it on over his shirt. It fits perfectly as always, and Misha smiles happily, fixing the laces and smoothing it down.

“Much better,” Misha pronounces, stretching up to peck him on the chin. “Happy anniversary.”

“Get this.” Sam smiles, going to his desk drawer and taking out a small box. “I got you something too.” Truth be told, he’d only remembered because Misha had asked him last week if he’d like to go to the café where they first had dinner, way back when they first met, for their first anniversary. But he’d found something anyway, so Misha doesn’t have to know that. He takes the pendant out of its box. “Happy anniversary, Mish.” 

It’s a smooth, mostly orange gemstone carved in the shape of a hand on a simple leather cord. “Hamsa,” he explains, lifting Misha’s hat to loop the cord over his head. “For protection from evil.” He presses his lips to Misha’s forehead. “Got the orange ‘cause it’s your favorite.” He carefully replaces the hat on the wig just the way Misha had it before. “And topaz for fidelity,” he finishes shyly, fiddling with Misha’s scarf. “Also, um… I figured you’d like something more exotic than a pentagram.”

“Is this your version of a promise ring?” Misha asks with a giggle, looping his arms around Sam’s neck.

“I—” No, he’s not ready to talk about either of those things yet. “Kinda, yeah,” he says instead, and Misha lights up, kissing him again.

“I kinda expected something along the lines of a penis cage, but I’ll take what I can get.”

Sam grins. “Well, that can be arranged.”

“Yes, and we can take turns. Now come on,” he says, leading Sam out the door and tucking the pendant safely under his shirt. “It’s just a couple of drinks, then dinner’s just us. It’ll be fun! Forget it’s Halloween.”

Sam coils an arm around Misha’s waist tightly. “Only because you’re going.”

 

As soon as they enter the bar, Jess runs over to give them a hug. “You’re late again! Can’t leave you guys alone to get ready. You always get distracted.” She’s all dolled up in a sexy nurse outfit, and she gasps as she gets a good look at Sam. “Is that— Are you dressed as Sarah Jane Smith?”

Sam turns to Misha, glaring. “Misha?” That would explain the sporadic giggling they encountered on the way.

“What? So I made you a sweater I saw on TV! It was a nice sweater!” Misha protests, ducking behind Jess. “You liked it!”

Jess snickers. “Yeah, that just so happens to be your Doctor’s companion’s.”

“Jess!!” Misha whines as she leads them over to the table where the rest are waiting. He’s not worried though. Sam’s punishments are always the best.

The bar is covered in tacky Halloween decorations, but it’s early evening, so the real partying hasn’t quite started, and Classic’s What Cha Gonna Do is playing. Luis brings them a tray of Lemon Drops, and they each take one.

Jess raises her glass. “So here’s to Sam and his awesome LSAT victory.”

“All right, all right,” Sam chuckles, ducking his head. “It’s not that big a deal.”

They all clink glasses, and Jess adds, “Yeah, he acts all humble, but he scored a one-seventy-four.”

Sam, Misha and Luis down their shots.

“Is that good?” Luis asks.

“Scary good,” Jess confirms, drinking hers.

“So there you go.” Luis claps Sam on the shoulder, sitting down on his other side. “You are a first-round draft pick. You can go to any law school you want!”

“Actually,” Sam admits. “I got an interview here. Monday. If it goes okay, I think I got a shot at a full ride next year.”

Jess leans forward. “Hey. It’s gonna go great,” she declares with a reassuring smile, and he mirrors the expression.

“It’d better.”

Misha leans to rest his head on Sam’s shoulder. “You’re going to get that full ride, Sam. And you’ll raise the bar for everyone else who applied. I know it.”

“Which makes you competition,” Alex cuts in, pushing her brown curls out of her face. “But I will at least drink to the anniversary of your coming out of the closet.”

Sam laces his fingers with Misha’s on the table and lifts their hands to press a kiss to Misha’s knuckles in response, and everyone else goes, “Aww…”

“So.” Luis nudges Sam a little in the shoulder. “How does it feel to be the golden boy of your family?”

Sam chuckles wryly, staring into his empty glass. “Ah, they don't know.” Misha squeezes his hand, and he squeezes back.

“What?” Jeff shakes his head. “C’mon, man, I’d be gloating! Star of the family for a change. Why not?

“Because we're not exactly the Bradys,” Sam replies evasively.

“And I'm not exactly the Huxtables,” Luis ripostes, but doesn’t press. “More shots?”

“No,” Misha insists. “We need to drive to our anniversary dinner.”

“Ooh, where are you headed?” Jess asks, grinning.

He beams. “The place we had our first dinner together.”

Shawna rolls her eyes. “You two make my teeth rot.”

“Oh no. Terrible for an aspiring dentist,” Sam responds with mock sympathy.

“C’mon,” Misha tugs him towards the dance floor as the Black-Eyed Peas comes on, marking the start of a more college-dance-party-friendly playlist for the night. “Let’s see if I’ve managed to teach you anything.”

Sam ducks his head, but doesn’t resist, chuckling as he loops his arms loosely around Misha’s waist. “If you say you’re my dance teacher, I’ll only embarrass you.”

“Nonsense,” Misha declares dismissively, already gyrating to the beat. “They should have seen you before. And it’s not like you could make me any prouder.”

~*~

Wood slides on wood, metal clinks on metal, and Sam wakes with a start. Beside him, Misha shifts in his sleep. Downstairs, he hears the wooden floorboards creak, and he sits up. Quietly, he exits the bedroom and checks the other room — Jess is sound asleep, too. Vicki is, as usual on Halloween weekend, back home, which leaves only one possibility. He worriedly glances back into the room at Misha. He’s been dreaming again lately, dreaming of Misha, Misha burning on the ceiling above him. He wakes up crying and tries not to wake Misha as he holds him closer. He won’t let that happen. Not if he can help it.

The floorboards creak again, and for a moment, he runs through the list of possibilities in his mind. Then he realizes that no monster he’s ever encountered sneaks in through the window, and he heaves a sigh of relief. He heads downstairs and looks around. A window is open; they never leave the ground floor windows open at night. He can hear footsteps now that he’s nearer, then a man walks past the strings of beads Jess hung at the far end of the hall. Silently, Sam moves into the kitchen and waits.

The intruder steps in mere seconds later, and Sam lunges forward, grabbing the man’s shoulder. The man knocks Sam's arm away and aims a strike at Sam, who ducks reflexively. Then he grabs Sam's arm, swings him around and shoves him back. Sam kicks; the man blocks, then shoves, and they’re careening into the dining area, hitting chairs. A bit of light from the street lamp outside falls on the intruder’s face, and Sam thinks he’s seeing things, but then the man is elbowing him in the face, so he retaliates by kicking at his head. The other ducks and swings, but Sam blocks, so he barrels into Sam, knocking him down and pinning him to the floor with one hand at Sam's neck and the other gripping Sam's wrist.

“Whoa, easy, tiger.”

Sam blinks in disbelief, struggles to catch his breath. “Dean?” His brother laughs, and he’ll never admit how much he’s missed the sound. “You scared the crap out of me!”

“That's 'cause you're out of practice.”

 _Oh yeah?_ He grabs Dean’s hand and yanks, slamming his heel into Dean's back and reversing their positions.

“Or not,” Dean concedes, and he taps twice where he’s holding his brother down pointedly. “Get off me,” Dean grouses, and he rolls to his feet, pulling Dean up with him.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asks, deciding that ‘sneaking into my apartment in the middle of the night through the window like a thief’ is beside the point.

Dean shrugs, gripping Sam by the shoulders as if to take a better look. “Well, I was looking for a beer.” He shakes once and lets go.

After almost two years of radio silence, after telling him he’s either all in or all out, Sam isn’t buying this bullshit. “What the hell are you doing here?” he demands again, squaring his shoulders.

Dean sighs. “Okay. All right. We gotta talk.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Uh, the phone?”

“If I'd'a called, would you have picked up?” Dean challenges.

Before he can remind his brother who cut ties between them for good, the light flickers on.

“Sam?”

They turn as one. It’s Jess, in her running shorts and a cropped Smurfs shirt. Damn. _Act normal,_ he decides, so he smiles and says, “Hey. Dean, this is Jess.”

Dean is too busy checking Jess out to answer, but Jess does a double take. “Wait, your brother Dean?”

Sam nods, and Jess smiles. Dean grins at her, glances back to throw Sam his best “score, baby brother!” look and moves closer. Sam rolls his eyes.

“Oh, I love the Smurfs,” Dean enthuses, and he resists the urge to bury his face in his hands. “You know, I gotta tell you. You are completely out of my brother's league.”

Jess snorts. “Well, back when he was batting for my team, I thought he was completely out of mine, so…”

“Sam?” As if on cue, Misha comes down the stairs, stretching like a lazy cat in his Matrix T-shirt and plaid pajama pants.

“Hey, Mish.” Sam smiles fondly, turning to Dean. “Dean, this is Misha. Misha, this is my brother, Dean. Jess over there is my best friend.”

Dean turns to him slowly, scrunching up his face as he repeats, “ _Misha?_ ” incredulously, and Sam can hear every bad joke Dean could possibly make in his head.

“Yes,” he confirms, hoping to pre-empt disaster. “My boyfriend.”

Green eyes blink slowly, moving from Sam to Misha to Sam to Jess and back to Sam again. “Seriously?!”

Jess shakes her head, laughing, and heads up the stairs. “I’m going back to bed, guys. It was nice meeting you, Dean.”

Misha, on the other hand, bounds over excitedly and holds out his hand. “You’re Dean? I’ve heard so much about you. He didn’t tell me ‘gorgeous’ runs in the family, though.”

Dean blinks again, and the reality of it all finally seems to sink in. He smirks, shaking Misha’s hand warmly. “Yeah, well, if you want the more attractive brother now, sorry, but I’m gonna have to crush your dreams. Now, Jess on the other hand, is exactly the way I swing.”

Misha grins, winking at Sam. “Guess I gotta tell Darius he’s got competition?”

Sam shrugs. “Only for a day.”

“Hey,” Dean protests half-heartedly, heading back to Sam’s side. “Anyway, I gotta borrow your boyfriend here, talk about some private family business, but uh… nice meeting you. I love the Matrix.”

“No.” Sam pushes past Dean to wrap an arm around Misha. “No, whatever you want to say, you can say it in front of him.”

“Okay.” The older man turns to look at them both straight on and hesitates. “Um. Dad hasn't been home in a few days.”

Sam frowns and shrugs. “So he's working overtime on a Miller Time shift. He'll stumble back in sooner or later.” Misha knows about the alcoholism, too, but just the thought of saying ‘Dad’s getting wasted as usual’ leaves a bad taste.

Dean ducks his head for a moment and looks back up. “Dad's on a hunting trip,” he rephrases carefully. “And he hasn't been home in a few days.”

Misha glances up worriedly. “Hey, you think he might be…” He turns back to Dean. “What monster was he hunting? Do we know?”

Dean blinks, looks from Sam to Misha and back, then “He knows?!” More angrily, “You told him?! O—”

“He found out,” Sam corrects, crossing his arms and angling his body in front of Misha. “The hard way.”

His brother has the good graces to look somewhat chagrined at that. “Okay,” he says, calm again. “Okay. C’mon, Sam, you gotta help me find Dad.”

Sam sighs, running a hand through his hair and sitting down on one of the dining chairs. “Look, you can't just break in, in the middle of the night, and expect me to hit the road with you.”

Dean takes one of the other chairs. “You're not hearing me, Sammy. Dad's missing. I need you to help me find him.”

“You remember the poltergeist in Amherst? Or the Devil's Gates in Clifton?” Misha rubs his shoulders, and he leans back into the touch. “He was missing then, too. He's always missing, and he's always fine.”

The older Winchester shakes his head. “Not for this long. Now are you gonna come with me or not?”

Sam closes his eyes. “I'm not.”

“Why not?”

He opens them to give his brother a Look. “I swore I was done hunting. For good.”

Dean leans back. “Come on. It wasn't easy, but it wasn't that bad.”

Sam shakes his head. “Yeah? When I told Dad I was scared of the thing in my closet, he gave me a .45.” Misha hugs him.

“Well, what was he supposed to do?” comes the retort.

“I was _nine_ years old!” Sam gestures emphatically. “He was supposed to say, don't be afraid of the dark.”

“Don't be afraid of the dark?” Dean echoes, incredulous. “Are you kidding me? Of course you should be afraid of the dark. You _know_ what's out there.”

Sam squeezes Misha’s arm and leans back into him again. “Yeah, I know, but still. The way we grew up, after Mom was killed, and Dad's obsession to find the thing that killed her.” Dean averts his gaze to glance out the window, so he presses on. “But we still haven't found the damn thing. So we kill everything we _can_ find.”

“We save a lot of people doing it, too,” the other points out, and it’s true, but that doesn’t change the rest of it.

He pauses, then barrels on ahead. “You think Mom would have wanted this for us? The weapon training, the melting silver into bullets? Man, Dean, we were raised like warriors.”

Dean rolls his eyes and stands, moving over to the window to look outside. “So what are you gonna do? You're just gonna live some normal, apple pie life? Is that it?”

Sam shakes his head, turns to press a kiss into Misha’s arm. “No. Not normal. Safe.” Where he’s not going to find Misha dead on the ceiling of their burning room.

Dean looks down, runs his fingertips along the window sill that’s never seen a salt line. “And that's why you ran away.”

“I was just going to college. It was Dad who said if I was gonna go I should stay gone. And that's what I'm doing.”

Dean turns. “Yeah, well, Dad's in real trouble right now. If he's not dead already. I can feel it.”

Sam falls silent. He doubts it’s serious, but still…

“What if he’s right, Sam?” Misha murmurs, voicing the thought on all their minds. Dean sounds so sure.

Dean places his palms flat on the table and meets Sam’s gaze. “I can't do this alone.”

Sam looks at him pointedly. “Yes, you can.” He’s been doing just fine so far.

Dean looks down. “Yeah, well, I don't want to,” he admits, and Sam figures this is the closest he’s going to get to “I’m sorry. I missed you.”

Misha kisses him on the temple. “At least hear him out?”

Fine. Fine. “What was he hunting?”

Dean cracks a small grin. “Come on out. It’s easier to just show you what I have.”

Sam stands and nods. “Let me put something on.”

 

“All right, let's see, where the hell did I put that thing?” Dean pops the trunk and rifles through its contents.

Sam rests his hip near the taillight. “So. When Dad left. Why didn't you go with him?

“I was working my own gig.” Dean answers distractedly as he keeps searching. “This, uh, voodoo thing, down in New Orleans.” He picks up a folder.

Sam’s eyes widen. “Dad let you go on a hunting trip by yourself?”

Dean shoots him a Look. “I'm twenty-six, dude,” and Sam decides not to point out the time Dad wouldn’t let Dean go after that poltergeist alone when he was twenty-two. Dean pulls some papers out of a folder. “All right, here we go. So Dad was checking out this two-lane blacktop just outside of Jericho, California. About a month ago, this guy,” he hands one of the papers to Sam, “they found his car, but he vanished. Completely MIA.”

Sam reads the article. It’s a printout from the Jericho Herald, headlined "Centennial Highway Disappearance" and dated September 19th, 2005; it has a man's picture, captioned "Andrew Carey MISSING". Sam glances up. “So maybe he was kidnapped.”

“Yeah. Well, here's another one in April.” He drops a second sheet into the trunk. “Another one in December oh-four, oh-three, ninety-eight, ninety-two, ten of them over the past twenty years,” he continues, tossing a sheet onto the stack for each date he mentions. Taking the article back from Sam, he picks up the rest of the stack and puts them back in the folder. “All men, all the same five-mile stretch of road.” He reaches back into the trunk for a bag and opens it, pulling out a handheld tape recorder. “It started happening more and more, so Dad went to go dig around. That was about three weeks ago. I hadn't heard from him since, which is bad enough, then I get this voicemail yesterday.” He presses play.

“Dean...” It’s Dad. There’s a lot of static, and the signal was clearly breaking up. “Something big is starting to happen... I need to try and figure out what's going on. It may...” A burst of static and some background noise Sam hasn’t heard in a long time obfuscates the rest of the message, then “Be very careful, Dean. We're all in danger.”

Dean presses stop.

Sam glances up. “You know there's EVP on that?”

Dean grins. “Not bad, Sammy. Kinda like riding a bike, isn't it?” Sam shakes his head, but doesn’t answer, and Dean’s smile fades, but he drops it in favor of business. “All right. So I slowed the message down, I ran it through a gold wave, took out the hiss, and this is what I got.” He presses play again.

It’s a woman’s voice, wistful and ghostly. “I can never go home...”

Dean hits stop.

“Never go home,” Sam echoes, pensive.

Dean drops the recorder, puts down the shotgun, straightens and shuts the trunk to lean on it. “You know,” he begins conversationally, “in almost two years, I've never bothered you, never asked you for a thing.”

Again, Sam thinks to remind him that he’s the one who said Sam should stick with his choice and not call anymore, but he doesn’t feel like starting a fight. He glances back at the apartment, then sighs, faces Dean. “All right. I'll go.” He nods. “I'll help you find him.”

Dean nods approvingly.

“But I have to get back first thing Monday.” He turns to head back to the apartment. “Just wait here.”

“What's first thing Monday?”

He stops, turns back, and hesitates before answering, “I have this...I have an interview.”

“What, a job interview?” Dean tilts his head dismissively. “Skip it.”

“It's a law school interview,” he corrects, “and it's my whole future on a plate.” He knows Dean probably won’t understand.

“Law school?” Dean smirks, a little proud, a little wistful, and okay, maybe it’s not too late for them after all.

Sam levels him a look of worn patience. “So we got a deal or not?”

For a moment, Dean is silent, then finally, he pushes off the trunk to circle around to the driver’s seat. “I’ll get you back in time, no problem.”

~*~

Misha is fast asleep when Sam gets back to their room to pack, and it’s too tempting to crawl back under the covers and wrap himself around Misha, too easy to imagine doing so every night and never leaving. Misha wouldn’t turn family away though, and he’s already agreed to go, so he quietly grabs his knapsack and packs some necessities before putting his jacket on and shouldering it. Looking back at Misha once more, he thinks to leave a note, but decides he’d be better off calling in the morning, so he only heads back down and out just as the Impala pulls up and gets in beside Dean. Motörhead’s Back On The Chain is playing as they head towards the highway in silence.

“So,” Dean starts, and it’s never been so awkward. “How long have you and uh… _Misha_ um…”

“A year,” he answers, reaching back to put his knapsack on the back seat.

“Oh. Uh… Cool dude.”

Sam smiles fondly, deciding to ignore the hesitation. A boyfriend instead of a girlfriend probably doesn’t fit in with Dean’s ideal of a hero’s machismo, but this is his life, not Dean’s, and it’s not like Dean could possibly hold anything greater than abandoning the family mission against him. “Very.”

“So how did he find out ab—”

His smile thins. “Vengeful spirit.”

Just then, “—aam!!”

Dean glances up at the rear-view mirror and blinks, squints. “Hey, is that—?”

Sam turns in his seat to look.

“Saaammm!!!”

It’s Misha, cycling furiously after them, screaming Sam’s name at the top of his lungs like it isn’t half past three in the morning and waving frantically instead of gripping the handlebars. Jesus Christ, he’s going to get himself killed.

“SAM!!!”

“Dean, stop the car.”

He does, and Misha swerves onto the pavement as Sam practically jumps out of the car. “Jesus, Mish, are you crazy?!”

“Yes!” Misha leaps off the bicycle, letting it fall carelessly onto their neighbor’s lawn, and into Sam’s arms. “So don’t you ever leave without me! I’m coming with you.”

What? “No. Mish, y—”

“No. No, no, no, Sam, I know what you’re going to say,” Misha interrupts as Dean climbs out of the car as well. “It’s dangerous, I’ll get hurt, I’ll die… but listen, I’m going to die eventually, no matter what, whether I’m lying in a padded room or running from a monster. And if I have to go regardless, then all I know is,” he grips Sam’s shoulders and looks up into olive eyes, “the only way I want to go is with you.”

Sam opens his mouth to say something, but no words come. To his surprise, Dean spares him with a click of the tongue, tilting his head and pointing at Misha with a wide grin. “Never thought I’d say this, Sammy, but marry this guy.”

And Sam wants to say that’s the plan, that he even bought a set of matching rings in some spur of the moment during his last shopping trip, but no, he’d decided. Graduation. So he just pulls Misha to him in a tight hug.

“Okay,” he mumbles. “Okay. Just… promise you’ll listen to us about the hunt, okay? I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“Scout’s honor!” Misha beams, returning the hug. “So can we take the bike back before we go, or should we let the neighbors find it?”

~*~

They make a stop at a gas station to refuel for the trip. Dean has gone into the convenience mart, so Sam has the car door open because it’s warm. In the meantime, he’s looking around, taking stock of the differences since Dean took over the car from their dad. The only one he can put a finger on is that it’s cleaner. Not that Dad didn’t love the car, but Dean — if the Impala were a woman, Dean would marry it in a heartbeat and have wild sex with it multiple times a day.

Just as he finds Dean’s cassette tape collection, “Hey!”

He leans out to look as his brother comes out of the convenience mart carrying junk food.

“You want breakfast?” Dean holds up the bags — soda and chips.

“No, thanks.” Dean’s eating habits haven’t improved either.

Misha glances at the bags and leans closer to ask, “Is that what you grew up eating?”

Sam chuckles. “Pretty much, unless I could help it. Dean’s idea of vegetables is onion rings.”

A perturbed look crosses his boyfriend’s face. “I swear this is the Matrix. There is no way you two can eat like that all your life and end up this gorgeous.”

Sam snorts and kisses Misha briefly as Dean circles around to the pump. “So how'd you pay for that stuff?” he asks, turning back to his brother. “You and Dad still running credit card scams?”

“Yeah, well, hunting ain't exactly a pro ball career,” Dean replies, putting the nozzle back on the pump. He shrugs. “Besides, all we do is apply. It's not our fault they send us the cards.”

“Yeah? And what names did you write on the application this time?” Sam challenges, swinging his legs back inside the car and closing the door.

“Uh, Burt Aframian.” Dean climbs back into the driver’s seat and puts his soda and chips down. “And his son Hector. Scored two cards out of the deal.” He closes the door.

“That sounds about right.”

Misha raises an eyebrow, wrapping himself in the knitted throw he brought. “Sam, I thought you said you guys were Peter Venkman and Raymond Stantz, not Danny Ocean and Rusty Ryan.”

“Is there a difference?” Sam ripostes drily.

Dean turns, grinning at the reference. “I _like_ your boyfriend.”

Sam rolls his eyes and changes the subject. “And I swear, man, you've gotta update your cassette tape collection.” He goes through the box in his lap; there are more than he remembers — some with album art, others hand-labeled.

“Why?” Dean asks as Misha shifts forward to look over Sam’s shoulder into the box.

“Wow, these things still work? Heck, they still exist?” Misha blinks. “I haven’t seen cassette tapes in years.”

“ _No one_ has seen cassette tapes in years. And secondly, Black Sabbath? Motörhead? Metallica?” He holds up the tape in question as he goes down the list. “It's the greatest hits of mullet rock.”

Dean snatches the Metallica tape out of his hands. “Well, house rules, Sammy,” he declares, popping the tape into the player. “Driver picks the music; shotgun shuts his cakehole.” He drops the cover back into the box and starts the engine.

“Well, since I’m not in the shotgun seat,” Misha begins, crossing his arms.

“You get even fewer privileges,” Dean finishes as he pulls out of the bay to the opening riffs of AC/DC’s Back In Black.

“I just wanted to point out that that isn’t even Metallica. I know AC/DC when I hear it.”

Dean pauses before driving back out onto the highway to face Misha solemnly. “Don’t ever change.” He turns back to the road. “Seriously, Sammy, where’d you even find this guy?”

“He was waiting in my room when I arrived,” Sam deadpans, smiling fondly. “And you know, Sammy is a chubby twelve-year-old. It's Sam, okay?”

“Sorry, I can't hear you,” Dean says, turning the volume up as the vocals kick in. “The music's too loud.”

“Granola bar?” Misha offers, holding one out as Sam leans back in his seat with an exasperated huff, and Sam grins, taking it.

“I do love you.”

~*~

As they get closer to Jericho, Sam decides to try to narrow things down a bit, and he calls the morgue. He’s relieved when they say no one there matches his description of John Winchester. Next, he tries the hospital. Fortunately, no matches there either. He thanks the receptionist for checking and closes his phone.

“All right. So, there's no one matching Dad at the hospital or morgue,” he announces as they pass a sign that reads ‘JERICHO 7.’ “So that's something, I guess.”

Dean glances over at him, then back at the road. Up ahead, there’s a bridge, and as they get closer, they see two police cars parked nearby and several officers inspecting the bridge.

“Check it out.”

Dean motions with his chin, and both Sam and Misha lean forward for a closer look as Dean pulls over a short distance away. They watch for some time before Dean kills the engine and opens the glove compartment. Sam recognizes the box he pulls out — it’s their fake ID stash. He picks one out and grins at Sam, who can’t think of anything appropriate to say and just stares. He does _not_ miss this at all.

Misha, though, lights up with delight. “So _this_ is how you learned to make fake IDs!”

Dean raises an eyebrow in question, and Sam buries his face in his hands and slumps in his seat, mumbling “Don’t ask.”

His brother shrugs and opens the door. “Let's go.” Turning to Misha, he instructs, “You stay here and hide.”

“But I’m an actor,” Misha protests.

“Well, the authorities don’t travel in threes, and you look even less the part than Sammy here, so no. Stay.”

Misha pouts, but accepts Dean’s logic and lies down obediently with his head on the cushion he brought, beaming and leaning into the touch when Sam reaches over to ruffle his hair. The brothers get out of the car and approach the crime scene like they belong there. There’s a car in the middle of the bridge, dark blue and a little beat up on the roof. One of the officers is inspecting the car; another is taking photos as a third, who appears to be the man in charge, looks on. As they approach, he leans over the railing to yell down to two men in wetsuits who are poking around the river.

“You guys find anything?!”

One of the men looks up to yell back, “No! Nothing!”

He turns back to the car where his colleague is looking more closely around the driver’s side interior. “No sign of struggle, no footprints, no fingerprints,” the second officer reports, shaking his head. “Spotless. It's almost too clean.”

“So, this kid, Troy. He's dating your daughter, isn't he?”

“Yeah.”

The lead deputy’s expression grows sympathetic. “How's Amy doing?”

Somberly, the other replies, “She's putting up missing posters downtown.”

“You fellas had another one like this just last month, didn't you?” Dean opens like he’s done this a million times, and Sam thinks he’d be more impressed if they _hadn’t_ done this a million times.

The policeman straightens and turns to Dean. “And who are you?”

Dean flashes his badge. “Federal marshals.”

He looks them up and down, taking in their appearance, before finally saying, “You two are a little young for marshals, aren't you?”

Dean laughs. “Thanks, that's awfully kind of you.” He goes over to the car and circles it, inspecting it. “You did have another one just like this, correct?”

“Yeah, that's right. About a mile up the road. There've been others before that.”

Sam steps closer. “So, this victim, you knew him?”

The man nods wistfully. “Town like this, everybody knows everybody.”

“Any connection between the victims, besides that they're all men?” Dean asks from the other side of the car as he finishes his inspection.

“No. Not so far as we can tell.”

“So what's the theory?” Sam asks, walking towards Dean to take a closer look at the car as well.

The officer shrugs. “Honestly, we don't know. Serial murder? Kidnapping ring?”

Dean nods. “Well, that is exactly the kind of crack police work I'd expect out of you guys.”

Sam stomps on his brother's foot, forcing a smile at the deputy. “Thank you for your time.” He turns to the rest as he starts walking away with Dean close behind. “Gentlemen.” He shakes his head as he heads back towards the car. Those men are doing good work; there’s no need to be rude. Then Dean smacks him on the head. “Ow! What was that for?” he demands in a hushed tone.

“Why'd you have to step on my foot?”

“Why do you have to talk to the police like that?” he retorts.

Dean looks at him incredulously and moves in front of him. They stop. Bad timing.

“Come on. They don't really know what's going on. We're all alone on this. I mean, if we're going to find Dad we've got to get to the bottom of this thing ourselves.”

He clears his throat and looks pointedly over his brother's shoulder at the sheriff and two FBI agents. Dean turns.

“Can I help you boys?” the sheriff asks, unimpressed.

“No, sir, we were just leaving,” Dean answers, walking to the other side and nodding at the FBI agents as they pass. “Agent Mulder. Agent Scully.”

Sam resists the urge to slap his forehead and walks after Dean. He _really_ does not miss this.

 

As they drive further into town, they spot posters around with a photo of a young man and the caption “MISSING TROY SQUIRE” beneath it. They pull into a parking space and climb out to walk. Amy can’t be far. Misha has never been to Jericho before, and he looks around, taking in the sights as they walk. As they near the theater, they spot a girl in a jacket the color of her dark red hair tacking another poster to the wall.

“I’ll bet you that’s her.” Dean points, and Misha steps in front of them.

“Let me.” He turns and approaches the girl as Sam and Dean hang. “Hey, you must be Amy.”

“Yeah.”

“Um.” He smiles shyly. “I’m Troy’s cousin, Austin. And these are my friends, Sam and Dean.” They wave a little.

She smiles back just the slightest bit, but says, “He never mentioned you to me,” as she starts walking away.

Misha’s expression turns wistful. “Yeah, we uh… don’t talk about my side of the family much. We’re kinda like… the black sheep, you know?” He scratches the back of his head awkwardly. “We used to be pretty close when we were kids, but then stuff happened, and my family moved up to Boston, and we kinda fell out of touch. The last thing I heard from one of our few mutual friends is that he started dating a girl called Amy. So now I’m finally back in Cali for college, and I’m thinking I should look him up. You know, see if we could be close again like we used to?” Blue eyes tear up. “But just as I manage to get his number, I can't reach him, and then I see he’s gone missing on the news, and— and—” Misha flails, a despairing look on his face. “I had my friends drive me up here to help look for him. D—do you know anything?” He takes her hands. “Is there anything you’ve heard? Anything you can tell me?”

Another young woman, a blonde, comes over, placing her arm on Amy’s. “Hey, are you okay?”

Amy nods. “Yeah.” She turns back to Misha, then tilts her head towards a nearby diner. “C’mon. Let’s talk inside.” They grab a booth, Dean pulling up a chair while Amy and her friend, Rachel, take the seat opposite Sam and Misha. After they’ve ordered, Amy explains “That night, I was on the phone with Troy. He was driving home. He said he would call me right back, and… he never did.”

Sam and Misha exchange glances, feigning worry. “He didn't say anything strange, or out of the ordinary?” Sam asks.

Amy shakes her head. “No. Nothing I can remember.”

He notices her pendant then, a silver pentagram hanging on a simple black leather cord. “I like your necklace.”

She takes it in her hand with a wistful expression and looks down at it. “Troy gave it to me. Mostly to scare my parents,” she laughs a little, “with all that devil stuff.”

Sam chuckles as well and looks down at his hands, wondering if he should correct her.

“Actually, it means just the opposite,” Misha pipes up beside him, leaning into his side. “A pentagram is protection against evil. Really powerful.”

Hurriedly, Sam interjects with “Well, if you believe in that kind of thing.”

Dean looks at him.

“Yeah, but it’s the thought that counts, right?” Misha says with the smile of one madly and happily in love, running his fingers over the outline of the pendant under his shirt. “Sam here wanted to give me one. Whether or not it works, I think it’s really sweet that he wants to keep me safe even when he’s not physically with me.”

Sam wraps an arm around Misha then, and Rachel leans back. “Oh. Oh, I guess I needn’t have worried.” She laughs.

“So um... about Troy.” Misha leans forward, his expression again anxious, wringing his hands on the table. “The way he disappeared, isn't it kinda strange?”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “Something's not right, ladies, so if you've heard anything...”

The girls exchange glances.

“What is it?” Dean presses.

“Well...” Rachel hesitates. “It's just... I mean, with all these guys going missing, people talk.”

“What do they talk about?” all three ask in unison.

“It's kind of this local legend,” Amy supplies, dropping the pendant.

Sam nods attentively.

“Yeah, this one girl?” Rachel leans forward and continues more quietly. “She got murdered out on Centennial, like decades ago.”

“So they say she's still out there?” Misha asks, equally hushed and looking troubled. “As in, her ghost?”

Rachel nods. “Supposedly, she hitchhikes. And whoever picks her up? Well, they disappear forever.”

Sam and Dean exchange glances.

“Oh no.” Misha frowns. “I hope that isn't really what happened to Troy.”

Amy sighs, slumping in her seat. “Yeah, me too.”

~*~

After thanking the girls and saying goodbye, they head to the local library to see what they can dig up. The librarian informs them that the complete Jericho Herald archive can be accessed from the computers, so they head over to one that isn't in use to start searching. Dean sits down and types “Female Murder Hitchhiking” into the search box as Sam pulls up a second chair to sit beside him. He clicks “GO” as Misha leans in to look, resting his arms on Sam's shoulders. There are no results. He replaces “Hitchhiking” with “Centennial Highway,” and Misha frowns. Again, no results come up.

“Let me try.” Sam reaches for the keyboard.

Dean smacks his brother's hand. “I got it.”

“No, you don't,” Misha retorts as Sam shoves Dean's chair out of the way to take over.

“Dude!” Dean smacks Sam in the shoulder. “You're such a control freak.”

Sam ignores his brother, turning to the screen. “So angry spirits are born out of violent death, right?”

“Yeah.”

As Sam hits the backspace button, Misha rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. “Seriously, where are you guys even from? You do realize this search takes Booleans, right?”

“Well, he's ruled out some words for us,” Sam replies with a grin as he types in 'suicide' instead. “Maybe it's not murder.” He hits 'enter' and a result comes up, an article entitled “Suicide on Centennial.” Dean glances at Sam, an unreadable expression on his face, as Sam clicks on the article dated April 25, 1981. There's a picture of a woman near the top.

“This was 1981. Constance Welch, twenty-four years old, jumps off Sylvania Bridge, drowns in the river.” He skims quickly, scrolling down.

“Does it say why she did it?” Dean asks.

Sam sighs, leaning back. “Yeah. An hour before they found her, she called 911. Apparently, her two little kids are in the bathtub. She leaves them alone for a minute, and when she comes back, they aren't breathing. Both die.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Hm.”

“'Our babies were gone, and Constance just couldn't bear it,' said husband Joseph Welch," Sam reads further.

Another two pictures are shown side-by-side, one of a man and the other of a bridge. The captions identify them respectively as Joseph Welch and Sylvania Bridge.

Dean leans forward to take a closer look at the picture. “The bridge look familiar to you?”

Sam and Misha exchange glances. Sure it does — they were just there a couple of hours ago. It's where Troy Squire's car was found.

~*~

They drive back to the bridge. The sun has set, and it's pretty dark when they arrive. As they pull to a stop, Sam turns around in his seat.

“We're going down to take a look. You stay here, okay?”

Misha's eyes widen, and he shakes his head. “No, I'll go with you.”

Sam turns a pleading look on him. “Mish, you promised me.”

Misha deflates, but nods. “Okay.”

The brothers climb out of the car, walk along the bridge, then stop to look down at the river, leaning on the railing.

“So this is where Constance took the swan dive,” Dean muses.

“So you think Dad would have been here?” Sam asks, looking over at him.

“Well, he's chasing the same story and we're chasing him.”

Dean resumes walking, and Sam follows. “Okay, so now what?”

“Now we keep digging until we find him. Might take a while.”

Sam stops. “Dean, I told you, I've gotta get back by Monday—”

Dean turns. “Monday. Right. The interview.”

“Yeah,” he agrees with a pointed look.

“Yeah, I forgot. You're really serious about this, aren't you? You think you're just going to become some lawyer? Settle down in suburbia with your boyfriend over there?”

Sam squares his shoulders. “Maybe. Why not?”

“Does he know? What you've done? What it's really like out here?”

He looks Dean dead in the eyes and answers, “I told him _everything,_ Dean. The whole truth. We fought a ghost together, and you heard him. Nothing's changed.”

For a moment, before his brother looks away, Sam could have sworn he saw a hint of envy in green eyes, of pain.

“For Christ's sake, Sammy, you can't even go a few years without the cat coming out of the bag. You can pretend all you want that you can live a normal life. But sooner or later you're going to have to face up to who you really are.”

Dean turns around and continues down the bridge.

“And who's that?” Sam challenges, walking after him.

“You're one of us.”

Sam strides forward quickly to intercept his brother. “No. I'm not like you. This is not going to be my life.” He won't let it. He has Misha, and he's not going to give that up.

“You have a responsibility to—”

“To Dad? And his crusade?” he interrupts, throwing his hands up in frustration. “If it weren't for pictures, I wouldn't even know what Mom looks like. And what difference would it make? Even if we do find the thing that killed her, Mom's gone.” _That's the problem with Dad and Dean,_ he thinks. _They can't let go of the past._ But they can't change the past, “And she isn't coming back.”

In a flash, Dean has him pinned up against the railing by the collar with a furious glare. “Don't talk about her like that.”

Okay, maybe that was going too far, but his point still stands. He's not going to give up what he has for what is gone and can never be. Dean lets him go and walks away to continue his inspection of the bridge, but stops short.

“Sam.”

He turns. It's the woman in the picture, Constance Welch. She's standing on the railing near the end of the bridge. She turns to look at them, then simply steps off the edge. He inhales sharply and runs over to where she jumped off, Dean with him, and they look over the railing down at the river. There's nothing.

“Where'd she go?” Dean wonders aloud.

“I don't know.”

Suddenly, he hears the familiar rev of the Impala's engine starting behind them and whirls around just as the headlights come on.

Beside him, Dean squints against the glare. “What the—”

“Did y—”

Dean pulls something out of his pocket and shakes it. His car keys jingle.

 _Shit._ “Misha!” He starts towards the car.

Just then, it jerks into motion, heading straight for them.

“Shit!” He turns and runs. “Dean! Go! Go!”

Dean starts running as well, but the Impala is accelerating, and he can hear how close it's getting. _Damn it!_ Misha's still in there too. Then, just as abruptly, it stops. They turn. The back door is thrown open, and Misha practically falls out of the car in his hurry to get to Sam, who meets him halfway and pulls him into a tight hug.

“Are you all right?!” they ask as one, then simultaneously sigh in relief.

“I saw her,” Misha blurts, a panicked edge to his voice, looking up as Dean approaches. “In the car. Shotgun seat. She looked right at me, I swear, and I thought she was gonna kill me, but then she just turned back to the front! And—and the car just started moving by itself! And I thought she was going to kill you, and—”

“Sure looked like that was the plan,” Dean agrees, going over to inspect his precious car. “What a _bitch_!”

“Guess she doesn't want us digging around. Why'd she stop though?”

“Oh.” Misha looks a little sheepish. “Uh...”

“What's this?” Dean asks with a frown as he opens the front door on the driver's side, leaning in for a closer look.

Sam blinks, turning to his brother. “What's what?”

“That's... Well, when she turned around and looked at me, I kinda freaked, okay? So I grabbed the salt shaker in my bag and flung the contents all over the front seat?”

Dean turns, dusting salt off his hands, his expression somewhere between bemused and impressed. “Not bad.” He nods approvingly. Then he frowns, confused. “Wait, wait. Why'd you even bring the salt shaker with you?”

Misha blinks, looking from Sam to Dean. “Well, Sam said salt keeps lots of things away, so I thought it might come in handy as I was packing. It's not like I had anything really useful anyway.”

Sam takes Misha's face in his hands and kisses him emphatically on the forehead. “God, I love you.”

~*~

By the time Dean completed his thorough inspection of his baby and declared her fit for the journey, it was almost dawn. The local motel is a pretty standard affair. It feels like every motel he grew up in — plain, cold and impersonal. Still, it's more than Misha had growing up sometimes, so he feels a little grateful in retrospect. He tightens his hold on Misha's waist, thinking about how cozy Rebecca's place was with all its handmade furnishings. And their apartment feels so much like home now, since Misha brought some odds and ends over and decorated the place with his handmade throws and drapes. He doesn't want to go back to this.

“One room please,” Dean says, flicking a credit card onto what looks to be a handwritten guest ledger as he saunters up to the check-in desk.

The clerk picks up the card and looks at it. “You guys having a reunion or something?”

Sam blinks, coming up to the counter as well. “What do you mean?”

“I had another guy, Burt Aframian,” the clerk answers as he processes their registration. “He came and bought out a room for the whole month.”

The brothers exchange looks.

~*~

A spot of poking around turns up John's room number. Jericho isn't exactly teeming with attractions, so the motel really doesn't see high occupancy. No one answers when they knock, so Dean hands Sam the lock picks and goes to stand watch. It takes a little work because he's out of practice, but the door swings open in short order. He stands, putting the picks away.

“You have _got_ to teach me how to do that, Sam,” Misha declares, following him inside.

He reaches out and yanks Dean into the room as well and shuts the door. “Whoa.” He takes in the sight before him.

There are papers pinned everywhere — maps, newspaper clippings, pictures, notes and other little things attached. The desk is strewn with books, and the floor and bed are a mess, everything from useful gear to seeming junk scattered everywhere. Dean turns on the bedside light and picks up the half-eaten hamburger on the nightstand as Sam steps over a line of salt on the floor. Misha is looking at the papers pinned to the nearest wall as Dean sniffs the burger and recoils.

“I don't think he's been here in a couple of days at least,” is the verdict.

Sam crouches to finger the salt on the floor. “Salt, cat’s eye shells...” He looks up. “He was worried. Trying to keep something from coming in.”

“Wow, you guys are like the metaphysical CSI team,” Misha murmurs, reading one sheet after another. “This stuff is pretty thorough. I'd make an X-Files reference, except it looks like you guys actually solve these cases. And I never knew the paranormal rate was higher than the crime rate.”

Dean heads over to another section of wall. Sam approaches. Right in the middle, there's a row of photos and notes.

“What have you got here?”

“Centennial Highway victims.” Dean looks from one photo to another, scanning the notes around them. “I don't get it. I mean, different men, different jobs—”

Seeing nothing else of use, Sam walks around, scanning the other walls and skimming Dad's notes and printouts — the Bell Witch, a cambion, people burned alive, mortis danse...

“—ages, ethnicities. There's always a connection, right? What do these guys have in common?”

Devils, demons, sirens, witches, the possessed... He stops. It's a printout of the Jericho Herald article they'd read on Constance's suicide earlier. There's a note above it with “Woman in White” scribbled on in Dad's handwriting. He flicks on another lamp.

“Dad figured it out.”

Dean turns to look. “What do you mean?”

“He found the same article we did. Constance Welch. She's a woman in white.”

Dean looks back at the photos of the victims, a sardonic grin curving his lips. “You sly dogs.”

Misha comes over. “Hm? What's a woman in white? Aside from the literal obvious, I mean.”

“There are many variations of the folklore, but basically, a cursed spirit that preys on men who have been unfaithful to their partners because her husband was unfaithful to her in life, driving her mad and causing her to murder her children. She then commits suicide upon realizing what she’s done.” Sam explains.

Misha falls silent at that, pensive.

Dean turns to Sam then. “All right, so if we're dealing with a woman in white, Dad would have found the corpse and destroyed it.”

Well, she's still out there, so “She might have another weakness.”

“Well, Dad would want to make sure.” Dean crosses to Sam to take another look at the article. “He'd dig her up. Does it say where she's buried?”

Sam scans the text again just to make sure, but “No, not that I can tell. If I were Dad, though, I'd go ask her husband.” He taps the picture of Joseph Welch. The caption says he's thirty as of the article dated 1981, so he must be sixty-four now. “If he's still alive.” He goes to look around at the other papers, see if he can find anything else useful.

“All right. Why don't you, uh, see if you can find an address,” Dean suggests, heading for the bathroom. “I'm gonna get cleaned up.”

Sam turns. “Hey, Dean?”

His brother stops and turns back in question.

“Um. What I said earlier, about Mom and Dad, I'm sorry.”

Dean holds up a hand. “No chick-flick moments.”

Sam laughs and nods. “All right. Jerk.”

Dean grins, “Bitch,” and it’s just like old times, before they stopped wanting the same things in life.

He laughs again as Dean takes off, then something on the mirror catches his eye, and his smile fades. He crosses over for a closer look. A rosary hangs in front of a large mirror, and stuck into the mirror frame is a photo of Dad sitting on the hood of the Impala with a toddler on his lap, next to Dean who's wearing a baseball cap. He takes the photo off the mirror and holds it, smiling sadly. He must have been, what, three? Misha comes over to look at the photo.

“Huh, guess your brother always was the cuter Winchester,” he remarks teasingly.

Sam squeezes him around the waist and chuckles. “Changing your mind already?”

Misha smacks him on the ass. “You wish. You're never getting away from me, young man. Never, you hear?”

Sam puts the photograph down to pick his boyfriend up and spin him around. “What if we get sick of each other?”

“Impossible,” Misha declares confidently, flipping his hair. “No one could possibly get sick of me.”

Sam laughs, setting Misha down to ruffle his hair. “Silly Mish.”

“And what’s not to love about you anyway? I've already realized I'll never get over you, so there.”

He leads Misha to the door with an arm around his shoulders to go look up Joseph Welch's address, but Misha stops, tugging him to a halt as well.

“Hey,” he mumbles, suddenly uncomfortable. “I... I wonder why she didn't try to kill me.”

Sam turns. “Constance? Why? It's not like you've been unfaithful.”

Misha frowns, hesitant. “Well, there was that one night with Tom...”

“Wasn't that before we got together?”

Misha looks up. “You knew?”

Sam ducks his head. “Yeah.” He chuckles sheepishly, taking Misha's hands. “I was jealous, too. But I told myself I was being irrational, because I should be happy my best friend's found someone, right?” He sighs, meeting blue eyes with a wry smile. “Yeah, I was stupid, I know.”

Misha shakes his head. “I was stupid, too. Don't even know when or how it ever seemed like a good idea. I couldn't even manage more than one night. It didn't matter who it was or where I looked, all I could think about was you. Sometimes I think the dates I went on, the hook-up with Tom, they only made things worse, elevating the fantasy by supplying the contrasting disappointment.” He steps in closer, rests his head on Sam's chest. “What about Jess though? We kinda made out in that haunted house before you two broke up. In a manner of speaking, isn’t that cheating, too?”

Sam doesn't really have an answer, so he says nothing and just holds Misha close.

~*~

They're curled up on the bed taking a short nap when Dean grabs his jacket. “Hey, man. I'm starving. I'm gonna grab a little something to eat in that diner down the street. You guys want anything?”

Sam shakes his head. “No.”

“Hm?” Misha stirs, stretching contentedly beside him.

“Aframian's buying,” Dean points out as if it makes a difference.

Running his knuckles through the stubble on Misha’s chin, he replies, “Mm-mm, I'll get something with Misha later.”

Dean inclines his head agreeably and heads out, pulling on his jacket.

Misha levers himself up with an elbow to bop their noses together. “Good idea. Let's find some place that serves kale.”

Just then, Sam's phone rings. It's Dean. He answers.

“What?”

“Dude, five-oh, take off.”

 _Shit._ Sam jumps to his feet, pulling Misha with him. “What about you?” He gathers their things, and Misha seems to take the hint, briskly helping him pack.

“Uh, they kinda spotted me. Go find Dad.”

Dean hangs up, and Sam drops his phone into his pocket to usher Misha over to the windows in the back. That's the other thing he doesn't miss, he thinks bitterly, as he helps Misha through the window — being a fugitive, not only from monsters, but from the authorities as well. They sneak over to the Impala in the back and quickly drive off.

“Sam?” Misha finally asks, now that they’re safely in the car. “Are we leaving without your brother?”

“We’re going to ask Joseph Welch some questions,” he answers, glancing back. Good, the police aren’t chasing. Yet. He turns onto a back road towards Joseph’s house, avoiding the main thoroughfares. “Dean’s been arrested.”

“Wait, what?”

Sam almost laughs at Misha’s alarm. Almost. “Yeah, he called to tell us to take off. Guess they found out the IDs and cards were fake.” He glances at Misha’s worried face. “Don’t worry. This happens a lot. He’ll be gone before they can properly press charges.”

Misha turns back to the road ahead and nods slowly, as if digesting this. “Danny Ocean and Rusty Ryan,” he repeats to himself. “Right.”

“Right,” Sam agrees, spotting the house he’s looking for up ahead and pulling over. “So uh…” He turns to his boyfriend. “Think you could do me a favor?”

“Will it get me arrested too?”

“If you get caught, probably,” he admits. “I need you to go find the nearest public phone booth and call 911.”

There’s a long pause, then “Oh.” Misha grins as the plan dawns on him. “Does that make me Tess Ocean?”

~*~

They’re back on the highway, comparing notes in the car, and night has fallen again, when Sam’s phone rings. He picks it up; it can’t be anyone else.

“Fake 911 phone call? Sammy, I don’t know; that’s pretty illegal.”

He grins, glancing over at Misha. “Julia Roberts says you’re welcome.”

Dean snorts, and Misha huffs indignantly, but squeezes his hand as he shifts gears.

“Listen, we gotta talk,” Dean says, back to business.

“Tell me about it,” he agrees. “So the husband _was_ unfaithful. We _are_ dealing with a woman in white. And she's buried behind her old house, so that should have been Dad's next stop.”

“Sammy, would you shut up for a second?”

“I just can't figure out why Dad hasn't destroyed the corpse yet.”

“Well, that's what I'm trying to tell you. He's gone. Dad left Jericho.”

Sam blinks, turning into the phone. “What? How do you know?”

“I've got his journal.”

Perturbed, Sam frowns. “He doesn't go anywhere without that thing.”

“Yeah, well, he did this time.”

Thank you, Captain Obvious. “What's it say?”

Dean sighs. “Ah, the same old ex-Marine crap, when he wants to let us know where he's going.”

Right. “Coordinates. Where to?”

“I'm not sure yet.”

“I don't understand. I mean, what could be so important that Dad would just skip out in the middle of a job? Dean, what the hell is going on?”

“Sam!!”

Sam looks up and slams on the brakes, dropping the phone to brace one arm against the wheel and hold Misha back with the other. Constance is on the road in front, and the car fails to stop in time, going right through her. Distantly, from the phone, he can hear Dean shouting his name, but there are goosebumps on the back of his neck, and a glance in the rearview mirror tells him Constance is now sitting in the back seat.

“S—Sam…?” Misha stammers beside him, a look of terror on his face as he clutches his cushion with one hand and laces their fingers with the other, and Sam squeezes Misha’s hand, struggling to slow his breathing.

Constance looks right at him in the mirror. “Take me home.”

Misha swallows thickly, throwing Sam a disturbed look. “T—too soon.”

If Sam’s face could speak, it would have said, “Seriously?”

“Take me home!” she repeats more fiercely.

“No,” Sam replies firmly.

She glares and the doors lock themselves. He struggles to reopen them to no avail. Then the gas pedal presses down, and the car begins to drive itself. He tries to steer, but the wheel won’t budge. He goes back to trying to open the doors, and Misha tries on his side too, but nothing they do has any effect. In the back seat, Constance flickers, and they exchange glances. They link hands again. The car pulls up in front of an abandoned house, presumably Constance’s old home, and stops. The engine shuts off, and so do the lights.

Sam looks up into the rearview mirror and pleads, “Don't do this.”

Constance flickers again as she looks forlornly at the house. “I can never go home,” she says sadly.

“You're scared to go home,” he realizes, turning to Misha, whose eyes widen.

Suddenly, the seat reclines sharply, and Sam is pulled into the back seat with her. She straddles his chest, holding him down, and he struggles.

“Hold me,” she begs, leaning in close. “I'm so cold.”

“You can't kill me,” he protests, still struggling. “I'm not unfaithful.”

“Hey, I’m right here!” Misha yells, tossing a handful of the salt still scattered all over the front seat at her.

She vanishes, a flash of decay behind her pretty face, and they look around. Abruptly, she reappears in Sam’s lap.

“Aren’t you? You’re sinners together.”

She slams Misha into the driver’s door so hard it breaks the window, and he cries out in pain.

“Misha!!” Sam tries to reach for him, but pain sears into his chest as her fingers dig in, burning through his clothes, and he screams.

Suddenly, the engine starts, and the car starts moving. “You want to go home? I’ll take you home!” Misha yells, bracing as the car crashes through the side of the house, and Sam yelps loudly as he rams into the back of the front seat.

“Sam! Sam!” Dean shouts, running in, gun at the ready. “You okay?!”

“I think...”

“Can you move?” Dean asks as he reaches the car.

“Yeah. Misha. Help Misha.” Sam gingerly clambers towards Misha, who groans and shifts. “Mish. Misha? Come on, baby, say something. Answer me.”

Dean opens the door to help, and Misha grunts in pain as Dean pulls him to his feet out of the car. “There you go.”

Sam manages to get the door open and hurries around to where Misha and Dean are standing as Dean closes the car door.

“I’ll be bruised and sore for days, but I’m fine, Sam,” Misha answers hoarsely at last, and Sam sighs in relief, looking around for the woman in white.

She’s looking at a large framed photograph. When he turns to her, she looks up. Glaring at them, she throws the picture down, and Sam wraps himself protectively around Misha as she slams a bureau into them, pinning them against the car.

Just then, the lights flicker.

Constance looks around, scared, as water begins to pour down the staircase. Ghostly voices echo, “Mommy, mommy,” and she goes to the bottom of the stairs, looking up, distraught.

“You've come home to us, Mommy.”

Suddenly, they are behind her, and before she can react, they embrace her tightly. She screams, her image flickering as energy surges between them, as if their very essence is being sucked in, and they melt into a puddle on the floor. Sam and Dean exchange glances, then shove the bureau over and go to take a closer look at the spot where the spectral trio vanished. Misha leans into Sam.

“So this is where she drowned her kids,” Dean muses aloud.

Sam nods. “That's why she could never go home. She was too scared to face them.”

“You found her weak spot. Nice work, Sammy.”

He slaps Sam on the chest as he walks back to his car, and Sam laughs through the pain. Misha turns to press a gentle kiss to his chest through every hole burned into his shirt by Constance’s fingers.

“She said we are sinners together, Sam,” Misha murmurs, his arms looping around Sam’s waist.

Sam lifts his face, so their eyes meet. “I only care what you and Jess think.”

“I’ll tell you another thing,” Dean interjects, and they turn as he leans down to inspect his car. “If you screwed up my car?” He twists around to look pointedly at Misha. “I'll kill you.”

Sam snorts, pulling Misha into a tight hug. “Can’t. Dibs. He’s mine, all mine.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Get a room, you two.”

~*~

With some maneuvering, they manage to get the Impala safely out of the house. The right headlight is out, but there’s no real damage, nothing Dean can’t fix in a jiffy once he gets to Bobby’s. Sam sits with Dad’s journal in his lap and a map atop it, trying to find the coordinates 35-111 on it with a ruler. Misha holds a flashlight over his shoulder, and it doesn’t take long before he finds it.

“Okay, here's where Dad went.” He taps the spot with the ruler. “It's called Blackwater Ridge, Colorado.”

Beside him, Dean nods. “Sounds charming. How far?”

He takes another look, estimating the scale. “About six hundred miles.”

“Hey, if we shag ass we could make it by morning,” Dean notes brightly, turning to him.

Sam looks at his brother, hesitating as Misha turns off the flashlight. “Dean, I, um...”

The other glances at the road and back. “You're not going.”

And he feels bad. Even though he hasn’t missed hunting, he _has_ missed Dean, and the last two days have been so much like old times, like it used to be before his wanting something more out of life drove a wedge between them. But “the interview's in —like— ten hours. I gotta be there.”

Dean nods, clearly disappointed, and returns his attention to the road. “Yeah. Yeah, whatever.” He glances at Sam again. “I'll take you home.”

Misha looks between the brothers in the uncomfortable silence. “What about after the interview?” he suggests. “We could take a trip down to Colorado after the interview, see if your dad’s there?”

“Hm,” Sam considers it as Dean throws him a sidelong glance.

“It’d just be a day or two, and you could cite a legit family emergency.”

“Y—Yeah,” he agrees, but it feels like a slippery slope somehow, like every time he agrees to one of these trips, he’s taking one step back into his old life. Safe. He’d decided. And if he went, Misha would insist on going too. This was bad enough. He can’t protect Misha from everything that could be next, and even one thing is too many.

No doubt seeing his hesitation, Dean frowns and says, “I don’t want to wait that long. If Dad needs help, those hours could make a vital difference.”

He nods, and this time, Misha too falls silent.

 

By the time they pull up in front of the apartment, after a long drive in uncomfortable silence, Dean is still frowning. Sam and Misha get out, and Sam leans over to look through the window, an arm around his boyfriend.

“Call me if you find him?”

Dean nods.

“And maybe I can meet up with you later, huh?” he adds hopefully. Does it really have to be this way — will there always be a part of his brother he can’t reach anymore, just because they’ve made different choices?

Dean exhales heavily, relaxing a little. “Yeah, all right.”

Relieved, Sam pats the car door twice and turns away. He’s glad. At least it doesn’t have to be all in or all out anymore.

Misha smiles and waves, bouncing a little on his heels. “It was nice meeting you. We should catch a movie sometime. Y’know, once we’ve found your dad, one day without a hunt?”

Dean grins. “Sure thing. I heard Æon Flux is coming soon. I’d watch it just for Charlize in skin-tight leather.”

“Well, Goblet of Fire comes first, so let’s try for that. See you!” Misha turns to hurry after Sam.

Dean leans toward the passenger door, one arm over the back of the seat for support. “Sam?”

Sam turns just as Misha catches up.

“You know, we made a hell of a team back there.” He looks over at Misha and back. “All three of us.”

“Yeah.”

Dean nods once, smiling wistfully, and drives off. Sam watches him go and sighs, slipping his arm around Misha’s waist. Misha leans back to rest his head on Sam’s shoulder. “Let’s get some sleep?” he suggests quietly. “Knock ‘em dead at that interview, and we’ll meet up with Dean again after, right?”

Sam smiles warmly at that, letting them into the apartment. “What would I do without you?”

“Crash and burn.” Misha giggles, stretching on tiptoes for a peck on the lips as Sam shuts the door behind them.

Together, they head in. There’s a plate of cookies on the table, a note that reads, “Good luck!” and the latest copies of National Geographic and Captain America beside it.

“Ooh!” Misha snags a cookie and passes one to Sam as they head up the stairs. It’s chocolate chip. The shower is running in the bathroom further down the corridor. “Jess? You’re the best!” he calls as they turn into their bedroom.

Sam flops back on the bed, eyes closed, and Misha climbs atop him to press their hips together. Sam moans a little into the kiss that tastes like chocolate chip cookies, and slips his hands into Misha’s back pockets to squeeze his ass, eliciting a soft sound of desire, and breaks off to murmur, “So much for sleep, huh?”

Misha grins, then flinches as liquid drips on him. “Since when is the ceiling—”

Sam gasps as he rolls off, and he looks up to see— OH MY GOD. Jess. JESS. NO.

“NO!!” Sam screams, and it startles him to realize the screaming he hears is his own.

Jess, pinned to the ceiling, stares down at them with blood dripping out of her belly, and Misha can’t look away — no, no, no, no, no. Suddenly, she bursts into flame, and it’s just like his old house, just like it was back then, and he curls into Sam for cover, so he can’t see it coming for him.

“Sam! Sam!!”

Then he’s being pulled from the bed. Sam is screaming, “Jess!! JESS!!! NO!! NOOO!!!” as they’re pulled out together, and he covers his head with his arms — no, no, no.

“SAM!!! MISHA!!!”

Abruptly, he’s lifted into strong arms. Sam. It’s Sam.

“GO, GO, GO!!!”

The blast of cool air hits him like a freight train, and he gasps as they fall, careening to the grassy ground. Sam rolls off him to stare up as the inferno engulfs their home, and it’s just like it was back in high school.

After so much time spent moving from place to place, they finally had a home to call their own, and now he has to watch it burn to ash. Everything, _everything_ Momma made that he could take with him is in there, and now it’s all in ashes, and he d—wait, he’s lying on his knapsack, because he never got around to putting it down.

Sitting up, he opens it to pull out the orange cushion and knitted throw he took on the trip and clutches them to him tightly, burying his face in them. He’s glad now that he chose these two to bring along — the first cushion Momma made for their last apartment and the throw she’d used to teach him how to knit. It’s colorful because they just used whatever yarn they had on hand, switching as each one ran out, and even though it’s a few years old, it’s well cared for. They’re the only things he has left from her that he can keep close now.

Warm, familiar arms wrap around him as sirens approach, and he leans into the embrace. Sam’s crying. Sam’s crying, too. And Jess. _Jess._ Oh God, the poor girl. He’s so grateful that Vicki went home and won’t be back till later in the morning. He doesn’t know what he’d do if she had been in there too.

The firemen come and tell them to clear the area, and Sam helps him up, gathers their things. Sam still has his knapsack too. Nothing important is in it, though — Sam always travels light and practical. Dean pats Sam on the shoulder, leads them over to the Impala. It must have been Dean pulling them out of the apartment earlier.

“I thought you went to find Dad,” Sam says hoarsely, putting their things on the back seat and sitting down. He pulls Misha into his lap and wraps the throw he’s holding around them both. “What made you come back?”

Dean holds out his arm. “My watch stopped.” The watch on his wrist still isn’t ticking. “Demonic activity. And it’s the same son of a bitch that killed Mom!!” Dean shouts, slamming his hands into the roof of the car.

Sam stiffens, shakes his head numbly. “Why? Why Jess?”

“Why Mom?” Dean ripostes, slumping against his baby.

“It’s me,” Sam mumbles, still shaking his head. “It’s my fault. I brought them.”

“What? Sammy, it’s not like that.”

“But Jess,” Sam continues as if he hadn’t heard a thing, still shaking his head. “She wasn’t even— she never—”

Misha gets his feet on the ground and turns in Sam’s arms, rubbing the tears on Sam’s face away with his hands and taking in the look of desperate anger. “Do you wish that had been me?”

Olive eyes flick up to him, pure terror and disbelief. “What? No! Mish, how could you think that?”

He loops his arms around Sam’s neck. “Then don’t leave me.”

Sam swallows thickly. “What… what a—”

“I know you, Sam.” He presses their foreheads together. “Now that you think your past has caught up to you, you’re not going for that interview later. You’re not even staying till later. Am I right?”

Sam closes his eyes, pained. “How could I—”

“If you’d left me here this weekend, that could have been me in there.” Sam is shaking his head even before he says it. “Take me with you, Sam.”

“No, Mish, I told you; I never wanted this life for us, and for you, it doesn’t have to be that way. You’ll make a great President someday, an amazing actor; I know it. So do that, Misha. Please. You have a life, dreams, friends and family. Don’t give that up. Don’t risk your life.”

“That,” Misha straightens, points at their burning apartment where the firemen are still trying to douse the flames. “That was my life, Sam, our lives.” He chokes a little. “So don’t you leave me, too.”

Sam buries his face in Misha’s chest, still shaking his head. “Don’t do this, Mish.”

More gently, resting his cheek on soft brown hair, he murmurs, “Do you think I could do it? Just live my life every day, wondering if you’re still out there, never knowing if some monster had killed you? If our positions were reversed, could you?” Sam shakes his head again, and he presses a kiss into Sam’s scalp. “You’re my family, Sam, and there isn’t a single dream I have without you in it.”

Sam pulls away. “You don’t understand. You’ve barely seen what it’s like. It won’t always be this easy. Everything, _everything_ out there is going to try to kill us, and—”

“No, _you_ don’t understand, Sam.” Misha cups his face so their eyes meet, and he can’t look away. “Listen, you idiot,” Misha says fiercely, shaking him. “I’m not with you because it’s easy.” Blue eyes soften. “ _Love_ isn’t easy, Sam. Some people search their whole lives and never find what we have. So I’m not giving this up. I’m not giving _you_ up. I told you, Sam: everyone will die someday, so let me go on my terms — with you. I won’t run if you won’t, so don’t you dare leave without me, young man.”

Firm hands clap them both on the shoulder, and they look up at Dean as one. “Again, I never thought I’d ever say this, Sammy, but marry this guy.”

Sam huffs a laugh, looking down now that Misha has let go. “Y’know, it’s funny. That was the plan before you showed up.”

“Why only before?” Dean asks, frowning.

Sam smiles wryly, but doesn’t answer, instead continuing with, “I was going to ask after graduation. I’d even bought a set of rings, a—”

“Tell me they’re not in there,” Misha states with surprising vehemence, pointing at the fire that’s almost out. “I swear to God, if that fire’s claimed them too, I’m going to hunt that fucker down, flay him and kill him,” Dean’s eyes are widening as Misha speaks, “then stuff him, so I can hang him on my wall in some lifelike but terrifying pose and use him as a dart board f—aww… Saaammm~”

Sam’s pulled a little jewelry box out of his pocket and opened it to reveal a pair of matching silver rings. “I never go anywhere without it, Mish. I kept worrying you’d find it before the right time.”

“Aww, look! Samantha’s blushing!” Dean cries with a laugh, which Sam ignores.

“Or that some perfect moment to ask would come up, and I wouldn’t have them with me.” Misha is just smiling now, blue eyes shining, and Sam can’t take his eyes off that stupidly happy look on his boyfriend’s face. “And um… I know this is shit for timing, and… and it won’t be anything like what we talked about last Christmas, but um…”

“I don’t care about that, Sam.” Misha takes one of the rings. “I can live without the dogs. Or the house.” He grabs Sam’s left hand. “The only thing I need is you.” He puts the ring on Sam’s fourth finger resolutely. “So swear it to me, Sam. Right now. Till death do us part.”

Sam shakes his head. “Are you kidding me?” He laughs, putting the other ring on Misha’s left ring finger and pulling him into a tight hug. “I’m not letting even death get between us.”


	5. Epilogue: Someday We'll Know

Sam laughs as Misha smacks Dean and dangles a caramel apple in front of the boy in an astronaut costume, turning the key in their room door. As he opens the door, he spots people inside, and immediately draws his gun.

“Who are you?” he demands, moving forward, ready to shoot.

Dean turns at the sound of his voice and runs in. Spotting the people, he hurries to Sam’s side. “Sam! Sam, wait! It’s Castiel.” He pushes the gun down. “The angel that looks like your boyfriend.”

Stunned, he watches as Castiel turns. He truly is the spitting image of Misha, only older and dressed like a tax accountant in a trench coat. Dean glances at the other person, a tall African American man by the window.

“Him, I don’t know.”

There’s an ethereal air about Castiel. An angel. He’d always believed they were real, but to finally meet one… Blue eyes settle on him, and it feels awkward — he must be smiling like an awestruck idiot.

“Hello, Sam.”

Oh. His voice is beautiful, just like Misha’s, but deeper. _Ah, that’s right, he spoke! Um…_ “Oh my God— err— uh— I didn’t mean to— sorry. It’s an honor, really. I—I’ve heard a lot about you,” he says in a rush. _Smooth, Sam, so smooth,_ he chides himself mentally. _You open your mouth, and the first thing you do is blaspheme. Get a grip on yourself, Sam. You’ve fought monsters and killed demons. You can talk to an angel without embarrassing yourself._ Or not. He’s quite ready to sink right into the floor, so instead, he steps forward and offers Castiel his hand. Castiel looks at it like he’s not quite sure what to do with it, which only makes the whole scene more awkward.

Fortunately, Misha rescues him by walking in right then, pushing the door shut behind him. He gasps, stopping short. “Holy— you weren’t kidding,” he breathes, pushing forward to take a closer look. “It’s like looking in a mirror. Are you sure we’re not related?”

Castiel looks at Misha and tilts his head. “Misha. Yes, Dean mentioned I greatly resemble you. I looked. Unbeknownst to all of you, eight years before your birth, a woman bore your father a son and gave the baby up for adoption. This vessel and you are indeed related by blood.”

Misha gapes. As he digests this, Castiel turns back to Sam who is still trying to decide whether it’d be better to drop his hand or indicate subtly that one is supposed to shake an offered hand. Now that the angel’s attention is back on him though, it seems more awkward to drop his hand, so he shakes it a little. Castiel seems to understand and places his right hand in Sam’s. His hand is warm, a little smoother than Misha’s, his grip firm but gentle.

“And I you, Sam Winchester,” he continues their previous conversation as if Misha hadn’t interrupted. Turning their hands a little, he covers Sam’s hand with his other one. “The boy with the demon blood. Glad to see you’ve ceased your extracurricular activities.”

The boy with the demon blood. Impure. Abomination. He should have known.

“Let’s keep it that way,” the other stranger, another angel most likely, chimes in.

His face must have fallen, must have registered his sinking heart, because abruptly, Misha is pulling him backwards, away from Castiel. “Don’t listen to them, Sam,” Misha says sternly, placing himself between them. “They have no right. They don’t know anything about you.”

Castiel’s eyes widen in surprise.

Misha turns to him and cups his face to make their eyes meet as Dean steps in front of them both. “Listen to me, Sam. The only thing that matters is here.” He places his palm flat over Sam’s heart. “So don’t you pay their words any mind.”

“Yeah, okay, chuckles.” Dean turns to Castiel. “Who’s your friend?”

Blue eyes look at him sadly before turning to Dean, but Castiel doesn’t answer, instead asking, “The raising of Samhain, have you stopped it?”

“Why?”

“Dean, have you located the witch?” he asks more insistently, still not answering.

“Yes, we’ve located the witch,” Dean finally answers impatiently.

“And is the witch dead?”

 _Back to business, back to business. Get a hold of yourself, Sam._ Sam takes a deep breath. “No, but—”

“We know who it is,” Dean finishes.

Castiel walks over to the table by the bed. “Apparently, the witch knows who you are, too.” He picks up a hex bag and shows it to them. “This was inside the wall of your room. If we hadn’t found it, surely one or all three of you would be dead. Do you know where the witch is now?”

They exchange glances.

“We’re working on it,” Dean replies, squaring his shoulders.

Castiel looks sad. “That’s unfortunate.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “What do you care?”

“The raising of Samhain is one of the 66 seals.”

Dean nods slowly in understanding. “So this is about your buddy, Lucifer.”

“Lucifer is no friend of ours,” the other angel interjects.

Dean rolls his eyes. “It’s just an expression.”

“Lucifer cannot rise,” Castiel states solemnly. “The breaking of the seal must be prevented at all costs.”

“Okay, great,” Dean agrees. “Well, now that you’re here, why don’t you tell us where the witch is? We’ll gank her, and everybody goes home.”

Castiel shakes his head. “We are not omniscient. This witch is very powerful, she’s cloaked even our methods.”

Misha blinks. “Okay. Well, since we already know who she is, if we work together—”

“Enough of this.” It’s the other angel again, still gazing out the window.

Dean turns, clearly irritated and fed up. “Okay, who are you, and why should I care?”

The angel turns from the window and looks at Dean, his expression condescending.

“This is Uriel,” Castiel introduces at last as Uriel walks towards them. Reluctantly, he adds, “He’s what you might call a… specialist.”

Dean looks from Castiel to Uriel and back. “What kind of specialist? What are you gonna do?”

If possible, Castiel looks more discomfited. “You— uh, all of you. You need to leave this town immediately.”

“Why?” Dean demands, more insistently this time.

Castiel sighs, almost inaudibly. “Because we’re about to destroy it.”

Sam, Dean and Misha look worriedly at each other.

“So this is your plan — you’re gonna smite the whole friggin’ town?!” Dean asks incredulously.

“We’re out of time,” Castiel responds. “This witch has to die. The seal must be saved.”

“But there are a thousand people here!” Misha protests, stepping forward.

“One thousand two hundred fourteen,” Uriel corrects calmly.

“And you’re willing to kill them all?!”

“This isn’t the first time I’ve… purified a city.”

Sam can’t believe his ears. They’re _angels._

Castiel sighs again. “Look, I understand this is regrettable.”

 _“Regrettable?”_ Dean repeats in disbelief he shares. 

“We have to hold the line,” the angel reasons. “Too many seals have broken already.”

Dean puts his hands on his hips. “So you screw the pooch on some seals, and this town has to pay the price?”

Castiel Looks at him. “It’s the lives of one thousand against the lives of six billion. There’s a bigger picture here.”

“Right. ‘Cause you’re bigger picture kind of guys.”

The angel looks at each of them in turn, solemn. “Lucifer cannot rise. He does, and Hell rises with him. Is that something that you’re willing to risk?”

Sam shakes his head. “We'll stop this witch before she summons anyone,” he decides firmly. “Your seal won't be broken, and no one has to die.”

Uriel turns to Castiel. “We're wasting time with these mud monkeys.”

Castiel turns to face the other angel before saying, “I’m sorry, but we have our orders.”

“No,” Sam interjects, shaking his head. “This is—” Wrong. All wrong. This isn’t what he’s been praying for, been praying to. “You can’t do this. You’re angels! I mean, aren’t you supposed to— you’re supposed to show mercy.”

Uriel smirks, feral. “Says who?”

There’s no hope, no salvation. For him, for anyone. This isn’t how it was supposed to be.

Castiel at least sounds sorrowful when he says, “We have no choice.”

“Of course you have a choice,” Dean retorts. “I mean, come on, what? You’ve never questioned a crap order, huh? What are you both, just a couple of hammers?”

Castiel frowns. “Look, even if you can’t understand it, have faith. The plan is just.”

Sam’s eyes widen. Killing a thousand innocent people is just? “How can you even say that?”

“Because it comes from Heaven; that makes it just.”

Misha shakes his head. “Wow. Suddenly, I feel really good about being Buddhist.”

“Oh, it must be nice to be so sure of yourselves,” Dean drawls, sarcastic.

“Tell me something, Dean,” Castiel says softly, stepping closer. “When your father gave you an order, didn’t you obey?”

Dean looks at the angel and takes a second. Sam has to admit that Castiel makes a valid point there.

“Well, sorry boys, looks like the plans have changed,” Dean declares.

Uriel’s expression is one of disdain. “You think you can stop us?”

Dean walks up to Uriel and stands in his face, defiant. “No, but if you’re gonna smite this whole town, then you’re gonna have to smite us with it, because we are not leaving.” Sam and Misha link hands and nod in concurrence. “See, you went to the trouble of busting me out of Hell. I figure I’m worth something to the man upstairs. So you wanna waste me, go ahead, see how he digs that.”

Uriel frowns, angry. “I will drag you out of here myself.”

“Yeah, but you’ll have to kill me, then we’re back to the same problem.” Dean shrugs. “I mean, come on, you're gonna wipe out a whole town for one little witch. Sounds to me like you're compensating for something.” He turns back to look at Castiel. “We can do this. We _will_ find that witch, and we _will_ stop the summoning.”

Uriel turns to Castiel. “Castiel! I will not let these peop—”

Castiel holds up his hand. “Enough!” He stares at Dean, assessing. “I suggest you move quickly.”

~*~

“Misha?” Sam calls, looking around as he runs down the hallways. “C’mon, Mish, where are you?” They’d gone to look for Don Harding’s address, and Misha had suddenly disappeared. He hopes nothing bad has happened. Maybe Misha just went to the bathroom. He looks out the corridor window at the school field. “Misha!” His partner is there with Castiel, the angel from earlier that looks just like him. Sam runs down the stairs and out to the field.

“Promise me,” Misha is saying. “With the kind of promise you angels can’t break.”

Castiel hesitates, then nods. “Very well. I promise.”

“Mish?” He comes to a stop beside them, looking from one to the other. “What’s going on?”

Castiel looks down, seeming sad, as Misha turns to him.

“Hey, baby.” Misha reaches out to take his hands. “I’ve just asked Castiel here to use me as his vessel instead.”

“What?!” He can’t be hearing right. “Mish, no! Do y—”

“Yes, I’ve been warned.”

“Then, wh—”

“Sam.” Misha grabs his shoulders. “That’s my brother he’s in.” He tilts his head to indicate Castiel. “My brother, who has a wife and a daughter. I’m already here with you and Dean whom he is supposed to watch.” Blue eyes soften. “Wouldn’t you do it for Dean?”

Sam covers Misha’s hands with his own and squeezes. “That’s different.”

Misha smiles wistfully. “He’s still my brother, Sam, and my niece deserves her father, even if I’ve never seen any of them till now.” He steps closer, and Sam wraps his arms around Misha’s waist instinctively. Misha has always been kind. Too kind. “Castiel also promised me he would protect you as long as it doesn’t directly contradict his orders.”

“You _idiot._ ” Sam tightens his hold, eyes stinging. “I don’t need your protection. I only need you.”

Misha reaches up to comb his fingers through Sam’s hair, still smiling. “That’s what makes you worth protecting.” Sam shakes his head, but Misha presses a thumb to his lips before he can speak. “Shh, baby, do you remember? Just over a year ago, you died in my arms, Sam, and I couldn’t do a thing. I can’t do that again, Sam, watch you die, powerless to help. If I’d had his powers then, I could probably have saved you with a touch, and Dean never would have had to die.”

Sam continues shaking his head. “Don’t do this, Mish. Don’t you remember? This day, last year, our anniversary — you promised we’d always be together,” but he knows he can’t change his partner’s mind.

Misha turns to Castiel. “Go. Take my brother home.”

Castiel bows his head and vanishes in a flutter of unseen wings.

“Dammit, Mish. You can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep giving everything up for me.”

“You silly thing,” Misha murmurs affectionately, taking Sam’s face in his hands. “ _You’re_ my everything, Sam, and I haven’t given you up, okay? He agreed to let me out sometimes, so we can still be together once in a while. Did you think I’d agree to a lifetime without you?”

Sam sobs. “What if he breaks his promise? What if he can’t keep it?”

“Then I’ll fight him. I’ll fight him, take back my body, and come running back to you. You’d better believe it.”

Sam chuckles through the tears. “I know you will.”

Misha smiles, blinking back his own tears and wiping Sam’s away with his thumbs. “So kiss me, Sam. Not goodbye, just till next time.”

And Sam doesn’t hesitate, just pulls Misha close and kisses him fiercely. Misha kisses back with just as much ardor, and God, Sam wishes he could convey in this single gesture everything he feels for this man he’s come to love so strongly. _You’re too good for me, Mish, too good for this world. You’ve always been an angel to me, you know? In my darkest moments, you were my only light, and I never needed anything else._

He feels it, the precise moment Castiel takes over — the other’s posture shifts, and he stops kissing back. Sam presses his forehead to the other’s and lets out a shuddering breath, keeping his eyes closed. “Take care of him. Please. If you can answer just one prayer…”

“Of course.” He’d expected the angel to step back, to back away from him and his tainted soul, but Castiel doesn’t move. Instead, a hand —familiar, yet unknown— reaches up slowly to touch his left cheek, hesitant, curious. “He asked the same for you.”

And it seems presumptuous, but he can’t help covering the hand on his cheek with his own and pressing into it one last time as he opens his eyes. “I don’t think I ever told him enough just how much I love him.”

Castiel smiles, gentle. “He knows, Sam. And his memories of you…” Blue eyes fill with wonder. “They’re so beautiful.”

“And mine of him,” he wants to say, but Castiel looks him in the eyes gravely, serious once more. “Go, Sam. Save this town. Stop the witch. Hurry.”

He nods as Castiel disappears, letting his hand fall to his side. He takes a deep breath, then runs back into the school to get Dean. Misha would have wanted the same.

~*~

“Hello, Sam.”

Sam doesn’t turn where he’s resting his arms on the railing, gazing out at the town from the rooftop of the school. Milling below, going about their daily lives, a thousand people who will never know how close they were to being obliterated. He doesn’t regret saving them.

“If you’re here to warn me against using my powers, your friend already gave me the lecture.”

“No, that’s not why I’m here.”

It’s Misha’s voice, but Castiel always speaks in a lower register, and Sam doesn’t know if he dares turn around to see once more how different everything has become.

“I… can sense your disappointment, Sam. In… this vessel’s memories, you had such faith. I’m sorry.”

He turns at that, surprised, and Castiel is looking at the floor by his feet, a look of deep sorrow and regret on his face, Misha’s face. “I—I’m sorry we couldn’t save the seal in time,” he blurts then, chagrined. “B—”

“I was praying that you and your brother would choose as you did.”

Sam blinks. “You were?”

Castiel smiles a little at that. “You two truly are brothers. Dean reacted much the same way.”

And even though he knows it’s not Misha he’s talking to, he can’t help mirroring the expression. “Could you blame us after what you said yesterday?”

The angel shakes his head, stepping closer. Sam instinctively reaches out to touch, then stops, remembering who he’s really with, but Castiel catches his hand, pressing his left cheek into it like Sam had done yesterday.

“You need not refrain. He already misses you terribly.”

At that, Sam pulls the other into a tight hug. “Can he hear me?”

“Yes.” Gingerly, as if he’s not sure he should, Castiel wraps his arms around Sam.

Sam buries his face in chestnut hair, inhales deeply of his beloved’s familiar scent. There’s something different about it now — a hint of ozone, an otherworldly cleanness. “I miss you too, baby,” he murmurs desperately. “So come back to me, Mish. Come back to me soon, okay? I don’t want to do this without you.”

The arms around his waist tighten slightly, and Castiel leans on him. “Tomorrow.”

Sam leans back to see the angel. Castiel looks up at him.

“If I can, if nothing of import happens, I’ll let you spend some time together.”

“Thank you,” he says sincerely. “F—for what it’s worth, I… I’m glad it’s you in there.”

“And not Uriel?” the angel asks with a hint of a grin, and Sam blushes, ducking his head. “One of my brothers —you have yet to meet him— has a personality much like this vessel’s. Perhaps you would have liked him instead, impossible though that is.”

Sam shakes his head. “It’s better that you’re different. Less painful.”

Castiel drops his gaze, nodding slowly. “I see.” A pause, then “I have to go.”

Sam nods, letting go. “Of course.”

Castiel reaches up to take Sam’s face in his hands, makes their eyes meet once more. “I came to tell you, Sam: Don’t lose faith. It’s not too late for you.”

Sam blinks, and he’s gone, just as the door to the roof opens, and Dean sticks his head out. “Sammy? There you are. Ready to hit the road?”

Sam takes a deep breath and nods, squaring his shoulders as he walks over to Dean’s side. “Yeah. We’ve got work to do.”

_~fin~_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. I love any kind of feedback, so please do leave some! ♥
> 
> And finally, thank you, SCBB Mods, for a great year!


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